


Once Upon a Time 2: Between the Realms

by LA_Knight



Series: Once Upon a Time: A Silverlance Fanfiction Series [2]
Category: Celtic Mythology, Greek and Roman Mythology, Hellboy (Movies), Irish Mythology, Scottish Mythology
Genre: Dark, Dark Fantasy, F/M, Multiple Crossovers, Pre-Movie(s), Redemption, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-02-28 04:26:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 62,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13263663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LA_Knight/pseuds/LA_Knight
Summary: Once upon a time, an Elven prince rescued a mortal healer from a pack of wolves in human skin. He was gravely wounded, and for three moons she tended him faithfully before he sent her back to her life in the mortal realm.But he remembered her, and a second night of danger dragged her further into his world.Lonely after her ordeal in the New York subway, Dylan Myers finds solace in the nightly visits from Prince Nuada Silverlance. Each night, he comes to her cottage on the edge of Central Park and they share food and stories. During those hours of simple, tenuous friendship, it is easy to forget the darkness beyond the walls of the cottage.Then one of Nuada's enemies lays a vicious trap that results in the prince being slandered and condemned a criminal by his father, the king of Bethmoora...a trap that sends Dylan rushing to Faerie to stand at Nuada's side.A mortal has never stood beside Prince Nuada...until now. And Dylan's choice will thrust her and Nuada both further toward the destiny that will change the fate of both species.





	1. Steadfast

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Once Upon a Time: Underground.
> 
> Also, please make note of the warnings in the summary. There will be chapter-specific warnings as well, but PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS. Thank you.
> 
> Also, because of a situation with a cyber-stalker who is harassing me and reviews, I do not allow an animus comments. Unfortunately that means you guys have to be logged in in order to comment. But you can still leave Kudos without logging in if you want to and you can still read without logging in if you want to. Sorry for the inconvenience.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things can never remain peaceful for long. After weeks forging a bond of tenuous friendship with Prince Nuada, Dylan witnesses a violent, sickening crime. Desperate to save the sole survivor, she journeys back into the subway to find Prince Nuada, not realizing the danger she is putting them both in...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains mentions/instances of parental neglect, parental emotional abuse, rape, mental illness, PTSD, gore, murder, blood, sexual harassment, threats, non-sexual assault, bad breath, accusations, slander, sexual coercion, emotional abuse, panic attacks, forced masculine disrobing, and threats of non-sexual flogging.

**1\. Steadfast**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Faith, Storytelling, a Baby, Consequences, and the Price of Honor**

**.**

**.**

Nuada returned every night as the moon began to rise for more of  _Spindle's End_. Dylan always made sure to have fresh fruit and bread ready for the prince's arrival. Always made sure that her paperwork and reports were finished by moonrise. She even began rearranging her appointment-schedule at work so that she could go to physical therapy, doctor's appointments to check out her bad knee, and counseling during the day instead of in the evenings, leaving her free whenever the Elven prince arrived for the next part of the tale. But now the story was over.

Late summer rain drummed softly, musically against the cottage's shingled roof. The wind sang against the eaves. Warmth from the hearth and the cheery light of the sweet-smelling beeswax candles pushed any of the dreariness away. The cottage was a safe haven against the elements and the late July night.

Seated on the wooden, cushioned stool before the crackling fire, candle-glow and firelight caressing her face, Dylan stared at the flames with her chin cupped in both hands. Amber flames reminded her of half-feral amber eyes. With the book finished, the story ended, would the prince come back again?

In the silence in the warm cottage, Dylan's ears managed to catch a rustling sound outside the brass-bound granite door. A sliver of fear pierced her heart. She turned slowly. Her fingers groped for her cane lying beside the hearth stones. Why didn't she own a weapon, even after all this?

Because she couldn't bring a gun into the house. The iron and lead could hurt the brownie who took care of her things and any other of the lesser Fair Folk who came to her when they needed a sanctuary away from the human metals and poisons of the city. Tasers were expensive, and besides that, she didn't know how to use one. And the metal and plastic might also be too toxic for the Wee Folk. She had pepper spray, but it was in the bag hanging from a hook by the door.

Why didn't she have a knife, a dagger, anything? Because she was confident that the Kindly Ones would protect her. What did that say about her? That she would allow the Little People to sacrifice themselves for her safety.

The mortal resolved then and there to learn how to fight with a knife. She could get a ceramic one or something, so the brownie wouldn't be hurt by the steel.

If she lived long enough to get her hands on one. Since the person—or creature—on the other side of the door might be something intent on killing her, she wasn't too certain about survival.

The courteous knock on the door made her jump. For a moment she smelled the sweet, crisp scent of wildness and forests, and the sudden pang of fear just as suddenly faded away.

Nuada. She knew it was the crown prince of Bethmoora the moment his knuckles touched the stone door. At once any uneasiness fled. It still startled her, that she felt so safe with someone—a member of the dangerous species known as male, and one of the fickle and oftentimes murderous fae—who could kill her without breaking a sweat. But she did.

Heaving herself up, Dylan limped to the door and opened it.

Feral eyes like living gold searched the upturned face and Nuada frowned. The human looked pale, her face pinched. There were the faintest traces of bruising under her eyes, as if from tiredness. Didn't mortals know how to take care of themselves?

"Hail and well met, Prince Nuada. You honor me with your presence." Stiffness in her bad leg made curtsying awkward, so she bowed.

The Elven prince brought two gutted, cleaned and plucked pigeons wrapped in a shimmering cloth that seemed to repel dirt and blood and prevented the usual stink of blood or the spread of gore. The two birds were spitted and placed over Dylan's crackling hearth. As the juices sizzled and the skins crisped, the mortal realized this was the amber-eyed prince's way of saying "thank you" for the story.

Not that he would ever admit to such a thing.

With glacial topaz eyes studying her, the mortal picked daintily at the meat. It took everything in her not to tear at it. She'd never tasted anything so juicy or delicious. These weren't New York pigeons, or if they were, not the rangy, disease-riddled ones in Central Park and the surrounding city.

But of course they weren't. Nuada wouldn't eat something like that. For one thing, the iron in the blood (while it wouldn't make him sick) probably made the meat taste bad to him. Which meant these birds were magical and probably came from a faery market—the Troll Market in Brooklyn, maybe, or the Floating Night Market in Manhattan.

The pigeons were cooked just so, so that even without seasoning or even salt the meat almost seemed to melt in her mouth. Dylan focused on eating with all the manners her mother had taught her as a child before she'd abandoned etiquette in the sterile darkness of the institution.

Unlike Nuada, who wrapped the bones inside the shimmery, glass-colored cloth and stowed it somewhere when she wasn't looking, Dylan fed the bones to the fire. She knew from experience that calcium—and bones, if they were small enough to burn properly—made pretty colors in the flames.

The awkward silence that stretched between the mortal women and the regal Elven prince tightened his shoulders with tension. With the story now over, they had nothing more to talk about. Watching the flickering, tinted flames with distant blue eyes, Dylan drew Nuada's gaze again, though she did nothing but stare at the fire, a gentle and almost affectionate smile on her silvery-scarred face while she stroked the purring black kitten stretched out near her feet. Any unease remained hidden.

This human never failed to send a surge of confusion and, oftentimes, irritation through his blood. What mortal could gaze so lovingly at the beauty of a well-laid fire, at least without the sort of broken mind that exalted in setting fire to innocent animals and homes? But there was nothing broken or evil in Dylan's mind. The Elven prince knew that. There was only the simple enjoyment in the warmth, the light, the dancing flames.

"What do you do during the day?" Nuada demanded suddenly. His thoughts left a distinctly uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his belly. The human woman turned her dreamy eyes, pulled in odd ways by the scars on her face, toward the Elven prince. "Do you spend all your time reading fairy tales?"

Part of him bristled at the thought of such laziness in her. And deceit, as the mortal gave the impression of industry and dedication to hard work. But a smaller, quieter voice inside him reminded him of flagstones scrubbed clean of iron-laced blood, torn and bloody shirts washed and carefully mended. Laziness seemed so far removed from the human woman Nuada almost felt foolish for suspecting her of it.

Almost.

But Dylan shook her head. "Well, I have doctors' appointments a lot and physical therapy twice a week for my knee. And I'm a youth psychiatrist. Been doing it for almost five years now. If a young person between eleven and twenty has a cracked or broken mind or heart—or if their parents think so—they come to me for soul and heart healing."

Eying her suspiciously, he demanded. "And how do you heal them?"

"Sometimes things are very bad," the mortal murmured. Sorrow crept into her eyes, but it wasn't the heavy sadness for a lost race. This was almost a maternal melancholy, a mother's worry for her children. It, too, sent a shaft of discomfort through the prince. Humans should not have been able to feel such emotion. How could she?

Dylan added, "The chemicals in the body—they called them humors in the Old World, in olden times—can sometimes become unbalanced. There are certain things the brain is supposed to spread in the body, to make the mind work right.

"Often in young people, those chemicals aren't in balance and their parents think they need medicines to balance them back. Sometimes they do, but I try very hard to keep that from happening. Medicines for the brain can be hard on the young. Because the body and the mind are changing as one grows up, those chemicals aren't balanced anyway, and the medicines can do more harm than good. It's hard to figure out if there's a real problem, or just the side-effects of growing up."

"And if you can do it without the medicines?" The thought of anyone being forced to take the noxious, poisonous chemicals most humans considered "medicine" made his belly churn.

"Then I talk to them. I try to help them discern what it is that's making them so sad or frustrated or angry. It is very hard to be young, Your Highness, no matter what your species. Fae or human, I doubt the change from child to adult, coming into a world that in some ways is so similar and yet so very different from the one you've been living in as a child, is easy. Taking some drug that sends your emotions into a tailspin can't possibly be helpful."

Dylan thought of the nasty, chemical undertaste of drugged food, the sting of poisonous, lying needles in her veins, and fought a shiver of memory, an echo of fear. She wasn't a little girl anymore. She wasn't a teenager anymore, or a young college student with a fractured mind. No one could make her go back to being that way ever again. She'd beaten her addictions long ago.  _All_  of them.

But she imagined she could still taste the bitterness of the prescription painkiller she'd swallowed before Nuada's arrival. She shoved the thought away and focused on what they'd been talking about.

"Growing up," Dylan added, hiding her thoughts, "is the hardest of alchemical transformations."

How often had he thought the same thing? An adult for countless centuries now, he still remembered the hopelessness and great expectations of his youth. The need to fight and defend. The desperation to love and be loved. The undying quest to protect his people, the court of Bethmoora, his family, his sister, and to honor the memory of his mother, to earn his father's approval and the approval of his father's friends…even the approval of a burly silver cave troll who'd rescued a terrified Elven princess and princeling from mortal monsters…All these things had seemed to fill him up until his heart almost burst and his skull threatened to fragment.

It had seemed that very few of the Pobel Vean had understood this feeling. Nuala had. Their empathic and telepathic connection, the bond of twinship between them, had guaranteed that. Mr. Wink, though already fully grown at the time, had also understood. Who would have thought that a human woman could understand it as well? It made no sense. And yet he could see the acceptance, the knowledge, in those silver-washed eyes.

After swallowing once, gaze never leaving her face, he asked yet again, "Are you certain you are human?"

The wry grin that spread across the scarred face was slow to unfurl, but warm and self-deprecating. "I'm very sorry, my prince, but I am of Adam's flesh and Adam's bone, a daughter of Eve and a child of the High King of the World," Dylan replied, with a shallow lift of one shoulder in an oddly graceful shrug. "Which is good, because this way, as a human, I can make a haven for your people when they're in danger of fading. You might be surprised at how expensive it is to live plainly in this modern world, in this city, but that's where most of my money goes. You'd like the Amish, I think. They manage to live free of most of the modern poisons and machines, but it's hard for us normal folks."

"Amish?"

Dylan explained to the prince about those mortals who, in devotion to their Christian God, lived with horse-drawn buggies and candlelight and homegrown food, eschewing machinery and processed food and electricity. How they delighted in hard work and good, tilled earth. How even the mortal's own religious leaders told their followers to emulate the Amish in their precepts of industriousness, forgiveness, charity, and unconditional love.

Nuada frowned. Why had he not heard of these mortals before? Were they anything like this woman who refused to pollute her home with human metals and toxins and chemicals? Was anyone like this human? And what kind of mortal leaders told their followers to be forgiving, to love unconditionally? The blond warrior could not remember ever hearing such things from men of power and standing in the mortal world. But he knew that Dylan was not lying about this.

"Is it that you are…what was it you said? Mormon? One of the Star Kindler's people?" He asked, and she nodded. "Is that why you care so much for such things? Helping my people?"

If a mortal could be good, Dylan would have been. It was truly a shame that she possessed the curse of humanity—greed, cruelty, evil. Even if she'd succeeded in burying it deep inside where it would never take strong root, which it seemed she had, it was still there. But was she that way because of her devotion to the High King of the World? Or because of the torments her parents had inflicted on her as a child?

"I think…I think because I'm a convert to the Church, and because I converted as a teenager—I was fifteen—I think about things relevant to its precepts more than some other Church members who were born into it. And part of that…"

She trailed off, staring into the flames. Nuada throttled back the urge to shake the rest of it from her. The prince hung on her words because she chose them with such thoughtfulness and care, but that made the waiting all the more frustrating.

"Part of that means that I understand…I know that God gave me the Sight for a good reason. He only gives us gifts if they are needed to bless others. Which means I don't have the right to refuse to use it. I  _have_ to use it. I'm supposed to do something with the Sight. The only thing I can think of, is that God gave me the Sight because the Fae need me, need the place I can create for them. It might just be one faery, or a hundred, or a thousand over the years before I die of old age or murder or whatever will kill me. But if God wants me to do it, then no matter how difficult it is, it's doable, and I am honor-bound to do it. Obeying His will became my duty when I decided to convert. I keep my promises, Your Highness."

"How do you know?" Nuada demanded. Hearing the mortal woman speak of honor, of duty, with none of the defiance or sullenness exhibited by humans fulfilling an oath, made the blood hum under his skin. She only sounded…content. Accepting. The quiet joy beneath her words confused and irritated him. Why did this human never do what the children of Adam were supposed to do? "How do you know if a thing is doable, just because your Christian God wants you to do it?"

"' _And it came to pass that I, Nephi, said unto my father: I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them,_ '" the mortal said with the resonance of someone quoting something. The dreaminess was gone from her eyes, the trace of self-mockery from her lips. Instead there was a calm, quiet acceptance in her expression.

With another of those slow, slight lifts of one shoulder, she added, "Nephi was only a boy, maybe about seventeen or eighteen years old, when he said that. He risked torture, death, and betrayal to obey the Lord. He didn't know how he was going to accomplish what God had set for him to do, but he knew that it was possible. There had to be a way, or the Lord wouldn't have commanded it.

"Ever since I first learned about the Church, I've wanted that kind of faith and strength. He was a kid, just like I was when I first read that scripture," she said, and there was wonder in her voice. "How can I not be as brave as that, especially now that I'm older? I'm not going to be shown up by a kid." The wry smile was back. "And since I've managed what I've managed," here Dylan gestured to the house, without a scrap of steel, chrome, lead, or iron, "I'm obviously doing  _something_  right."

For a long moment, there was a soft silence, touched only by the crackling of the hearth fire. Nuada stared at her. Faith in her Christian God. A desire to be truly good, to overcome her evil human nature and be something more. She could not be entirely human. She  _couldn't_ be. No human understood and accepted the truth of the unfillable hole in their hearts, much less strove to conquer the curse of it. How could she be human? And yet the stench of iron in her blood told him it was so.

Then the mortal broke the silence by asking, "Would you like to start another book, Your Highness? I know another story you might like."

She met his eyes. Soft, misty dreaminess turned blue-gray eyes into twin pools of silvered glass. Nuada tilted his head, that slightly feral movement Dylan had seen him do when he was thinking strange things about her. Firelight danced across one knife-sharp cheekbone, the thin scar across his face, the star-gold hair. The delicate point of one ear peeked through the silvery-blond strands; more strands shone bright against the Elven warrior's sable tunic.

 _Light and shadow_ , the mortal thought suddenly.  _All that's best of dark and bright meet in his aspect and his eyes_.

Time suddenly seemed suspended. Dylan wondered what the prince was thinking. The prince could not seem to grasp the thoughts pushing through his mind; thoughts of iron-laced blood and eyes like twilight and stardust, compassion where none should be, and the way her voice painted pictures behind his closed eyelids when she read aloud to him. He couldn't focus on such thoughts while they crashed against each other in his mind. There was only a willingness to let go of those thoughts and simply study that silver-scarred, blue-eyed face in the still and silent timelessness.

A knot in the burning wood made the fire crack sharply. Neither of them jumped, but Dylan realized she hadn't blinked for a while. She let her eyes close. They stung from lack of moisture. Nuada found his thoughts slowing, returning to normal. He blinked. The human woman no longer smiled, but there was nothing in her expression that spoke of fear or disquiet. Only a calmness, a quietness.

"Fetch the book, then," the Elven prince commanded. Unease slid icily through his belly. What had just happened here? "Read me another story." He toyed briefly with the notion of saying "please" and dismissed it. She was only a human, strangely fey-like or not. Such trivial courtesies mattered not.

The leather-bound book Dylan plucked from the tall, black shelves was small, thin and short, with the image of a muscled warrior in fur and armor holding a massive sword aloft, the image pieced together from bits of different-colored woods, metals and furs. A woman in slender, beautiful armor knelt beside him, looking up at the hero, made from the same materials. Then Dylan pulled open the book and caressed the yellowed page with a gentle, loving fingertip. She gave a swift glance at the Elven prince, smiled, and then began to read.

" _Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars. And thither came Conan, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth beneath his sandaled feet._

" _And know yet further, O Prince, that in that half-forgotten age, the proudest kingdom in the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming West. And this same Conan ruled from the throne of Aquilonia as Conan the Great, the mightiest lord of his day. And many were the tales spun about him as he was in his youth, wherefore it is now difficult to perceive the truth amid the many legends."_

Nuada grinned. This was almost—not quite, but almost—like hearing the first-year student-bards telling their epic tales in his father's court as a boy. First-years would never be allowed to perform for the king without possessing musical or bardic genius, but for the amusement of the prince and princess? Absolutely.

Now, Dylan's voice painted images of glittering cities, gleaming glass spires, mighty warriors in fur and boots wielding wide-bladed swords, and a world as yet unpolluted by the filth of modern humanity. It was almost as if the mortal woman had been in those distant days. Her eyes devoured the words even as her lips lovingly shaped them.

" _Privileged was I, Kallias of Shamar, above all my brethren amongst the scribes of Aquilonia, to have heard from the lips of my king, Conan the Great, the story of his travails and the high adventures that befell him along the way to the summit of his greatness. Here is the tale as he told it to me in the later days of his reign, when age had laid its fell hand upon him, albeit lightly…"_

**.**

Dylan staggered at a run through the subway, fear turning her sweat and breath to ice. Horror coiled sickly in her belly with every jarring step. She'd left her cane, how could she have left her cane? Bolts of pain shot through her bad leg as she stumbled forward.

In her arms, the baby fretted and twisted. Probably trying to get away from this woman with iron-laced blood smearing her skin, Dylan thought sympathetically. Poor thing.

But she couldn't afford to stop and shush the child, didn't have time to really comfort it. She didn't know if the Elf spattered with blood had seen her or not, but if he had, she couldn't stop until she found Nuada.

But the mortal woman had to stop when she reached a patch of concrete stained dark with old blood. Images, sensations, and emotions pressed down on Dylan like groping, squeezing hands, and for a moment—for an eternity—she felt a huge, immovable weight pressing against her and something tearing inside her as icy cement burned her back and blood ran down her throat, choking her…

" _No!"_ She yelled, shaking her head. The baby shrieked in her arms and began wailing pitifully. Panic stabbed at Dylan, but she shoved it aside; looked around at anything other than that dark stain of blood on cement and jiggled the baby as she struggled to keep moving.

"It's okay," she whispered against its tiny, delicately-pointed ear. "It's all right. Hush now."

 _Nuada,_  she thought as desperation spiked her pulse.  _Nuada, where are you?_   _Heavenly Father, I have to find him!_

The hair on the nape of her neck suddenly prickled and she whirled to stare back the way she had come. Her heart struggled to beat. Fear slid icily through her veins like poison. A brief warmth flared in her chest as cold spread down her back. Without understanding quite why, Dylan knew she had to get out of sight. Right now.

With a silent prayer, she climbed laboriously down onto the subway tracks, choking on the rising edge of hysteria. Where to go now? Whatever was coming couldn't see her now, but if it decided to peer over the edge, it would be all over. A tear managed to squeeze out when she thought of what would happen if the thing stalking her found her. What was it? Why did it want her? Could it be…the Elf she'd seen?

There had been so much blood and the stench and taste of death had grabbed her by the throat, choking her. But she had seen the dark-haired Elf as he drove a glittering blade deep into a pregnant human's body.

Not Nuada, she thought as she crept along the edge of the tracks. Thank heaven, not Nuada. But the crest embossed on the Elf's chest, the three stars around a flaming sun, smeared with blood, had tugged at her memory. Uncovered enough that she knew he had rank, court connections, power.

With realization had come a desire so strong she'd nearly staggered with it—a desire to see Nuada, to slip back into the sanctuary with the weeping infant in her arms and stay there until he told her what to do. She'd never had to deal with a fae that killed humans for pleasure. And it had surely been for pleasure, because before the woman…before the knife plunged into that belly ripe with child…

The baby whimpered and sobbed. Tiny fists flailed and tiny tears leaked out. Dylan fought the urge to cover the child's mouth. What if that hurt it? But the little thing had to be silent or the monster slowly making its way toward them would hear its cries and then…then it would be over.

 _Heavenly Father, help me!_ She prayed desperately, fighting back hysterical tears.  _I've never had a child, I don't know what to do! I've only been in Nursery a few months and I…_

_Nursery._

How did she make the children in her Nursery class grow calm? Calm enough to listen, calm enough to pay attention to her lessons? Music. Even though she struggled with keeping in tune, anytime she sang the kids in her Nursery class would fall silent and listen, sometimes even sing along. Some would even snuggle up to her. Even the shyer, more high-strung children responded well to the music. Their own mothers sang them the same songs.

" _I am a child of God,"_ Dylan sang on a voice that was barely a whisper. The baby subsided its weak wailing and sniffled. Its warm little body was limp with exhaustion. " _And He has sent me here; has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear…"_

 _Nuada,_  she thought as she crept along,  _where are you? How do I find you? Help me._  As she hurried along the tunnels, panic threatening to send her into cardiac arrest, she prayed,  _Heavenly Father, please help me find him._

And above, not far behind, something hunted her.

**.**

Your Highness! Your Highness!"

Nuada glanced up from his book as a brownie scuttled across the threshold of his current room, fear radiating from the little creature like heat from a fire. The brownie's high voice quavered and tears of fright glistened in her eyes. She flung herself against the stone floor at the Elven prince's feet and sobbed desperately, trembling with shocking violence for one so small.

Wink glanced at Nuada, who frowned and laid his book on the small wooden table beside him. Kneeling, he lifted the tiny brownie with very gentle hands. The brownie covered her face with her own small hands and continued wailing. Wink grumbled about "pipsqueaks" and "caterwauling" but the prince ignored him. He held the wee fae close to his chest and murmured soothing words in Gaelic until her sobs had quieted.

When she was calm, Nuada said, "There now,  _mo bheag amháin_ , my little one. You are safe here. What is it? What has frightened you so? I vow no harm will come to you while you remain in this chamber."

"A human," the brownie choked out. "She stinks of death and violence. Blood smears her skin and marks her footsteps—human and the blood of a greenman. She carries a halfling child through the tunnels. She is running away with the babe."

Rage, usually kept banked, flared to life in Nuada's breast. Had the disgusting mortal woman, whoever she was, butchered the wood faery and taken his child?

Nuada's hand was laid alongside the hilt of his lance before the brownie had time to see the fury and hate darkening the usually pale yellow eyes to red-tinged molten bronze.

Nuada carefully laid the little faery on his table. "Where is this human?"

The brownie told him. Nuada rose to his feet and laid his lance across one shoulder. The Elven warrior stalked toward the lair's entrance, rage in every line of his body. Before stepping across the threshold into the human realm of subway tunnels and concrete mazes, he turned back.

"Take care of our little friend, Mr. Wink. See she is fed and given something to drink. I shall return shortly."

As the prince sprinted into the tunnels, Wink sighed. He'd have to draw the prince a bath, then, or the regal Elf would track blood all over the place when he came back.

**.**

It was near. The monster hunting her was closing in. Dylan was limping badly now, every step an agony. Her knee throbbed and screamed. Blood patched the ice cold concrete every time she put her feet down, though she didn't know it. If not for the baby, snuggled against her breast, she might have simply lain down and given up, let the monster take her. But if she did…

 _For your mortal spawn,_  the blood-spattered Elf had hissed, hacking at the tall, antlered man who'd yelled at the pregnant woman to run. Blood fountaining up into the dark, the stinking death-blood slick and dark under the moonlight, and the Elf had snarled,  _For your filthy, half-breed abominations._

 _Don't think about it,_  Dylan commanded herself.  _Don't think about it._

With a Herculean effort, she forced herself onward. Her arms ached. She wasn't used to holding anything this heavy for this long. Her feet hurt—she'd raced out of her cottage like an idiot, without defensive spray or even shoes, to the sound of screams and the bellowing of an angry stag. Her feet had to be bleeding by now. Still she strove to ignore the pain as adrenaline pumped and terrified desperation drove her on.

Nuada saw her stumble, bang her bad knee against the concrete at the edge of the track. Saw the teeth sink into her lip to hold back the cry of pain. Saw tears leaving tracks through the blood and grime on her face.

Saw how she cradled the tiny babe in her arms, protecting it from any damage when she fell. Because of that, she scraped her arm against the rough cement. More blood smeared her skin, soaked her linen shirt.

The Elven prince realized it was the one he himself had given her to sleep in when she had been staying at the sanctuary. The loose white shirt was stained with patches of crimson and maroon now, as was the pale blue skirt tangling around her calves. There were even smears of blood on the baby's face.

But the child was unhurt. The rage simmered, but it was no longer a hot spear prodding him onward. He was calm again, calculating. Had Dylan finally shown her true colors? Was she all that he had originally believed her to be? Let him show himself to her, and let her show him the truth.

When the Elf stepped in front of Dylan, it was all she could do to stifle her scream. For just a moment she'd seen long black hair, silver cat-slit eyes, moonbeam skin glowing with a sickly bone-white light as the knife drove down and wrenched up and ripped down again…

Then the familiar firegold eyes pierced the moment of terror. Dylan's eyes took in the long hair like palest gold, the thin scar across the bridge of the nose and slicing across the sharp cheekbones. Fey-pale skin and black lips, scarlet-rimmed amber eyes and the silver-tipped black lance.

Her heart slowed its racing and her fear vanished as, without thinking, she shifted the child and threw her free arm around Nuada, burying her blood-smeared face into his broad chest and breaking into wild sobs of relief.

Nuada was so stunned by Dylan's embrace—a human! A human touching him!  _Embracing_ him!—that at first he didn't register her words. There was only the trembling weight of her against his chest, the heat of her tears soaking his shirt, the shackle of her arm around his body. He smelled her humanity, the blood on her skin and above that, the stench of woman's fear. Beneath it all, there was the fragrance of lilies and roses. Perfume? No, her shampoo. Then Dylan's words pierced his astonishment.

"I was so scared, there was so much blood, I didn't know what to do, I don't know what to do, he was going to kill the baby, he killed them, oh, Nuada, he killed them and I couldn't stop him, I was so scared, I thought he was going to kill us both, I tried to find you but I didn't know where you were, and something's  _after us–"_

His heart thudding fiercely against the cage of his chest, hands shaking and eyes wide, he gripped Dylan by her narrow shoulders and jerked her away from him. The wild, tumbling curls of her hair slid against his knuckles like warm silk.

He fought back a shudder. A human  _embracing_ him! He pressed down on the riot of emotions churning in his belly and stared at the mortal who'd had the audacity to lay hands on him without permission. What he saw disturbed him.

He'd only seen Dylan truly weep once before, though she had shed a tear for his pain at other times. But once before, only once, he had seen how she sobbed, not because he had shouted at her, not because of the pain of her wounds, but because his words had reopened old emotional scars barely healed. Yet even then, raw hysteria had never edged her sobs, never roughened her voice and sent her heart racing. And even her worst nightmares of what had inflicted those emotional scars only ever set her to a bout of quiet crying that she swiftly suppressed. Never this terrified weeping.

What was this, then? Cowardice? Or justified fear?

An idiot wouldn't have missed the desperation in her silvery blue eyes. They roved over his face, searching his expression. Probably she wondered why he'd forced her away from him. Her arm curled protectively around the sleeping halfling child, which snuggled against her breast, one tiny fist curled against her heart.

The sight sent a pang through him, though he could not have said why. Memories of his mother, perhaps? Half-thoughts of Nuala with a child of her own? Dylan held this babe as if it were  _her_ own, one hand now curling around to cradle the fragile skull, and that sent an odd unknown feeling coiling in his belly.

Before his thoughts could confuse him further, he tightened his grip on Dylan's shoulders, fingers biting into the flesh until a tiny flash of pain flickered in her eyes. Good. She would know he was deadly serious.

"Where did you get the child?" He demanded in a low voice. The mortal swallowed and swiped at the tears and blood on her cheeks. "Answer me," he commanded. Fought not to shake her. "Where did you get it?"

Dylan took a gulp of air, closed her eyes. Images of a dying man and a screaming pregnant woman flashed across the backs of her eyelids. Blood spilling. Soaking the silk beneath the Elf's armor. So many sounds in her head. A baby crying. A madman's laughter. A woman's pleas to spare her child. The bellowing of angry deer in the woods and the howling of trees caged by concrete and iron.

"I'd just come home from physical therapy," she said softly. "I heard screams, a man shouting. The cries of…" She looked into Nuada's eyes, saw the suspicion there. Was surprised by the flicker of hurt it put in her chest. "My phone was dead, so I couldn't call anyone. I…I ran to see what it was.

"A woman was crawling toward a basket on the path, near the trees I was coming through. A man wrestled with another man. One had long, black hair and the other had curly, red hair with antlers. A, a greenman, I th-think, or a woses. The moon was full so I could see okay. And I saw the knife and…"

Dylan choked, clutched the child to her. The sleeping baby stirred, and pressed more firmly against the human woman. "The other man killed the greenman. There was…blood. A lot of blood. Then he killed the woman. While he was busy with the woman, I grabbed the baby and ran."

"You grabbed the babe and ran…here?" Nuada demanded, incredulous. "Why?"

Dylan's eyes glistened—fear? Hurt? Disbelief that he did not understand? Tears?—as she met his gaze and said, "I was running to you."

"To me?" He echoed.

"I knew she would," a coldly amused voice called.

Nuada instinctively hauled Dylan behind him and raised his lance as Eamonn, soaked in blood both fey and mortal, hopped down from the concrete lip overhanging the subway tracks. Crimson soaked the white silk of his shirt and stained the gray leather trousers and vest he wore. The stench of death rolled off of him in noxious waves.

When the glaring overhead lights glinted off the blood-smeared crest on the Elf's breast, a crest of three stars surrounding a rayed sun, Dylan yelled, "It was him! Nu– Your Highness, he was the man who killed the baby's parents!"

"Very true." Triumph sparkled in the silver-shined eyes as Eamonn approached and bowed mockingly to Nuada. "An acceptable loss so that I could be sure of the truth." With a bitter smile, he added, "I must say, I was surprised you of all people would take a mortal lover, Your Highness."

The crown prince of Bethmoora choked on insult and fury.

Dylan sputtered, "L-l-lover?"

 _That's what the leanashe said,_  she remembered suddenly.  _She accused Nuada of sleeping with me._  Was Eamonn the one she had called "master?" Why did the accusation keep coming up? And why would it matter if Nuada had been doing—what did John call it? The sweaty pretzel—doing the sweaty pretzel with her? She'd talked to tons of Kindly Ones who had more orgiastic one-night stands to their names than Lady Gaga. Having lovers wasn't against Faerie law—even human lovers.

 _If anyone ought to be objecting,_ Dylan thought, feeling the weight of the golden medallion around her neck,  _it should be me._

One of Eamonn's razor-thin black brows arched. "Do not try to tell me you are not the prince's latest whore, human. I saw the way you threw yourself at him moments ago, even covered in gore as you were. You simply could not wait for him to bed you. At least the prince," he said  _prince_ like a foul word, "had the decency not to take you while you reeked of the dead."

Dylan fought for words, for something—anything—to say, but all she managed to get out was, "Ew."

"Eamonn," Nuada growled, his grip on the black haft of the lance tightening until his knuckles bleached white as bone. "You go too far."

"Actually, I haven't gone far enough. My spies already know about your little…" The dark-haired Elf curled his lip in disgust. "Dalliance. Even if you killed me, which would be a very stupid move politically speaking, news of this would reach the court of Bethmoora. It would most certainly reach the king and princess, if it has not already. While there is no law per se against dallying with mortals, this would not look good to your supporters, would it? You claim to fight for the lives and livelihood of our kind, then see fit to sport with one of our enemies. A common-born mortal slut. You are  _sickening!"_

Nuada did not speak. Everything had become clear. He didn't doubt that Dylan spoke the truth—Eamonn had killed a woodman and his mortal woman in an effort to catch him and Dylan out. Probably frustrated that the only thing the prince did in her home was eat and listen to her read, Eamonn had set this up to get so-called proof—and witnesses—of their supposed dalliance.

And Nuada didn't doubt that there  _were_  so-called "witnesses," who could twist the truth to suit them, and to slander him. While there was nothing to Eamonn's accusations, the dark Elf was absolutely right—it would be a serious issue for the crown prince of Bethmoora. Especially because his father would summon him back to Bethmoora for an explanation.

And he would have to explain that he had only been protecting the mortal woman from the pack of human wolves intent on hurting her. Dallying with humans, associating with them, was not against Faerie law—but killing humans without severe provocation was, and Nuada had killed the men who had raped Dylan.

But he could say nothing. His honor forbade him from revealing Dylan's ravishment to anyone. A gentleman never tells, wasn't that the human proverb? In Faerie it was considered dishonorable to reveal that sort of trauma, something so disfiguring and horrifying, without permission. In the Twilight Realm revealing such weaknesses was dangerous at best, and oftentimes fatal.

So he could say they'd meant to attack her, that he had known they would do her harm, but his father would not believe him for the very same reason he would summon Nuada in the first place—Balor knew his son despised mortals and wanted to see them all slaughtered. Under normal circumstances, he would never have rescued a human from mortal attackers.

While it was true that most Fae could not tell lies, that did not necessarily hold true for the older, stronger Fair Folk, especially royalty, and Balor knew that. The king of Elfland refused to see that his only son would never sully himself by speaking falsely, and thus would expect Nuada to be lying about his reasons for associating with Dylan. His father would consider the butchering of those human wolves an act of war, a break in the treaty between the Shining Ones and mortals. Nuada would be punished, perhaps even killed for what he had done in defending a human.

 _One life for several,_  he thought bitterly, lowering the lance. Eamonn did not mean to fight him this night. The Elf of Zwezda had already won this battle. And fighting him now, with Dylan and the babe so near, could prove very dangerous. Eamonn was nearly equal to the warrior prince in fighting skill.

"Wait," Dylan said slowly.

Nuada shifted to keep her behind him, shielded from the other Elf, but the infuriating mortal managed to shove past him to stare at Eamonn. Since Eamonn made no move toward her, Nuada remained still. Any protective moves he made would simply give his enemies more to report—or provoke the dark-haired Elf to attack.

"You butchered a man and his pregnant wife…" Dylan choked on her fury, on the sudden spill of hate and horror roiling in her gut. "To get Nuada in trouble with his father?  _What is wrong with you?"_

Suddenly Eamonn, moving with preternatural speed and grace, stood in front of her. Dylan turned to shield the baby from him as Nuada whipped his lance up to press the lethal point beneath the other Elf's chin. Politically savvy or not, he still owed Dylan a debt for saving the babe.

"Stay away from them.  _Both_ of them," the prince snarled when Eamonn reached out to touch Dylan's neck. Dylan shifted away from Eamonn, backed up behind Nuada until the reek of death no longer clawed at her throat. The dark Elf's silver eyes locked with Nuada's bronze ones.

"Let me look at the human, Silverlance, and I might hold back my spies."

A fresh wave of rage washed over the Elven prince. Eamonn was acting like a mortal. Let him get closer to Dylan? He probably meant to slay her then and there to silence her. Slay the unarmed human woman like the cowardly dog he was.

Besides, the prince had no doubt the other Elf was lying, in the faery way. Another petty, too-human trick.

Through gritted teeth, Nuada snarled, "You can see her just fine from where you are."

Eamonn's slow smile curdled Nuada's belly. The dark Elf murmured, "I want to  _touch_  her. I promise I will not damage your plaything."

"And I promise," Dylan muttered, "that if you keep talking about me like I'm not here, I'll make the prince hold the baby while I put my foot up your butt."

To both of their surprise, Eamonn laughed. The sound was low and violating as it slid over Dylan's skin. Nuada, seeing the revolted look on her face, tensed, ready to drive the lance through the other Elf's throat if he moved. But Eamonn held up his hands in a gesture of no-harm and stepped back, still laughing.

"She has spirit, I'll grant you that much. I can easily see why  _some_ might want her in their bed, even if she is a Mud Child. Let me examine your whore, Prince of Bethmoora, and I may keep what I have discovered to myself. I will not damage her or the babe in any way this night, I swear by the Darkness That Eats All Things."

Before Nuada could say anything, Dylan had shifted the baby so she held it upright against her side with one arm. With her free hand she pushed the spear's glittering tip away from Eamonn's throat. Defiance burning in her eyes, she tilted her chin and glared at the dark-haired Elf.

She knew about the Darkness That Eats All Things. Hadn't she, terrified the powerful Elven prince would kill her, made Nuada take that oath once before? Hadn't she herself made that vow when the pale Elven warrior had left her on the hospital gurney five months ago? She knew it was the strongest vow a faery could make. Forswearing it could—would—get you killed.

 _He won't hurt me,_ she reminded herself _. He swore it on the Darkness. And even if he hadn't, he couldn't hurt me if he wanted to. Nuada would kill him first._

Of this, the mortal woman had no doubt whatsoever.

Eamonn stepped forward and gripped the human woman's chin hard enough that whiteness stood out against the flesh around his fingers. She didn't so much as flinch or even look away. Blue eyes like rain-swept lakes bore into Eamonn's.

Yes, he could see why Silverlance, weak-willed and pathetic as he was, had succumbed to this human's wiles. There was a fey quality to her eyes that belied the stench of humanity oozing from her.

But despite the eyes, the humanity remained. And her face! It looked like a man's back after a flogging. Thin, ridged scars crisscrossed cheeks, chin, lips, forehead, even her crooked nose. Some of the scars were thick and dark, some slender and pale. They twisted her features, dragging at the corner of one eye, the opposite corner of her mouth. By all the gods, how could the prince  _stand_ it? How could he stand bedding this…this  _thing?_

The revulsion was strong enough that he was not gentle about turning her head from side to side. She made no sound of pain, though. Only the tiny, tiny lines at the corners of her eyes crinkled in the slightest wince. He was hurting her…but not damaging her. A very fine line. A faery lie.

His grin was malicious and taunting when he asked, "What is it like, human, to bed one of the Fae?"

He called her  _human_ the way another might say "cur."

Dylan's eyes were cold and, she hoped, regal as she stared the dark Elf down. She slowly lifted her left hand and tapped the golden medallion around her neck. "Do you know what this is?"

"It marks you as a child of the High King of the World," Eamonn replied. "One of the Star Kindler's get."

"You know of the Star Kindler and His ways?"

The Elf rolled his eyes. "Your whore is not only common, Silverlance, but stupid. Of  _course_  I know of the Star Kindler. Do you think me ignorant?"

Now Dylan splayed the fingers of her left hand. In icy, deliberate words she demanded, "Fine, then. Do you see a wedding ring on my finger?"

"No." He frowned. "What has that to do with anything?"

"' _For I, the Lord God, delight in the chastity of women_ , _'"_ Dylan spat.

Nuada watched her, stunned. Was she not afraid? He would have said no if he did not know her better, had not seen her in similar situations before.

Her voice was strong as she recited the words from memory. Incredulity made her gaze burn hot as she raked her eyes over Eamonn's face, studying him as she demanded, "Do you honestly think I would break one of God's highest laws, prince or no? If I ever willingly lie with anyone, it will be after I've been sealed to my husband for time and all eternity in the Temple of the Star Kindler by the power of His priesthood."

There was a burning in her chest, hot and strong, pushing the words out of her mouth. "You insult me, you insult His Highness, and you show your own ignorance and disgrace yourself with your words. How dare you try to entrap Prince Nuada? You will never be a tenth the Elf, a tenth the man, or a tenth the warrior he is."

Icily now, she said, "At least he understands the concept of honor."

Eamonn's grip on Dylan's chin tightened until her eyes were wide and shining with unshed tears of pain. Still she did not cry out, and Nuada did not move, only watched them both with enraged, feral eyes.

Finally, Eamonn released her and stepped back. He made a big show of wiping his hand on his blood-soaked trousers as if he'd touched something filthy.

"I would not say such things if I were you, little human whore. None of Adam's blood understands honor. The hole in your hearts can never be filled. Neither does the crown prince of Bethmoora understand honor, or he would not choose so lowly and vile a bedmate."

To Nuada he said, "I make no assurances as to whether the king learns of your deviancy, Your Highness." The acid in the other Elf's voice as he addressed the prince could have stripped paint. "I find I am not pleased by your whore."

"I'm not pleased by you, either," Dylan snapped.

Cruelty edged Eamonn's smile as he inclined his head toward her in a mocking gesture and she held the baby a bit tighter. The human woman's grip jolted the baby from sleep with a miserable wail.

"Take care of the child while you have her. And perhaps I shall visit your little cottage amidst the green some night, little human toy," Eamonn said, and he reached up to trail leather-gloved fingers over Dylan's vulnerable throat before dropping them to the gold medallion around her neck.

She jerked back, making the baby cry louder. The simmer of fear and loathing in her gaze made the dark Elf smile.

"Perhaps I shall endeavor to learn what the mighty Silverlance sees in bedding a loathsome mortal woman…for the sake of curiosity. And perhaps I will show  _you_  what it is to be had by a true warrior."

With a sardonic bow towards the Elven prince, Eamonn turned on his heel and sprinted away.

Nuada's low, feral growl shuddered over Dylan's skin. She turned to him with wide, beseeching eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, and bowed her head. "I didn't know you would get in trouble for…I didn't know I'd get you into trouble or I would have thought of something else, I swear. I'm sorry, Your Highness."

"He hurt you," the prince growled. Dylan's head flew up and she stared at him, confused. "When he grabbed you, he hurt you. I could see it in your face, but you said nothing. Why?"

"What would you have done if I'd said something?"

Only an idiot would have called Nuada's expression a smile. "Gutted him."

"Well, I appreciate that," and strangely, she actually did. It gave her the oddest urge to laugh against the shuddery relief rippling under her skin and stealing her breath. "But I don't want you committing murder because some Elf boy grabs my face too hard. Even if he did threaten to rape me."

Let him try. She'd gut him herself. No man would ever touch her against her will again. Never again.  _Ever_.

"But what about you?" She frowned, jiggled the baby to soothe it. It kept crying, though the volume died a bit. The crown prince watched the human woman and the halfling child with a strange feeling in his belly. "Are you really going to get into trouble for this?" Dylan asked.

Nuada shrugged, shortened his lance and sheathed it across his back. "Many of the Bright Ones who support my…dislike of humans—"

"Oh, you can say, 'hate,' Your Highness," Dylan informed him with a just the barest hint of sass and a quirk of her lips. If she could speak to him that way, she was not horrendously traumatized by Eamonn, then. Nuada found the thought both relieved and pleased him. With a sardonic lift of one eyebrow, she added, "I can tell how you  _really_ feel."

"Clearly I do not loathe all humans entirely, or you would certainly be dead now." Why was she smiling at his words? They had held undercurrents of jest, of self-mockery, but not for her ears. Only for his own. Perhaps she heard him better than he'd thought. "But many of my supporters will consider this a betrayal. They will not understand what has happened…"

The baby's wails picked up, and the Elven prince sighed and held out his arms.

"Give me the child."

Dylan blinked. "What?"

"Give her to me," Nuada said impatiently.

Dylan quickly handed the halfling baby over to the prince, who cradled the infant in suddenly gentle arms and looked into the little red face scrunched in discontentment. He murmured softly to the child in Old Gaelic, the words flowing off his tongue like liquid silver.

Dylan found she could only understand snatches of the monologue, but it was enough to warm her heart:  _poor child…your family will not die in vain…do not weep…find rest in Bethmoora…it will be a haven for you…I will protect you until you find sanctuary…_

But it wasn't just the words. There was a tenderness on the Elf's face that made Dylan wonder suddenly if Nuada had children of his own. A wife, perhaps. Or even just a fae woman who loved him, since marrying a prince might be dangerous in the Faerie Realm. It was certainly dangerous enough in the human world.

"You know babies," she said wonderingly, though there was a strain in her voice that had Nuada glancing up at her. Dylan slowly and carefully levered herself down to the concrete ledge beside the tracks, stretching out her bad leg.

The Elf winced inwardly at the sight of the damaged knee swollen to twice its normal size. Dylan began kneading it with firm presses of her fingers. Her lips twisted in pain, but she didn't stop.

"I don't know why I'm surprised about that," the mortal added. "It's not like I know you're a childless bachelor or anything."

"Stand up," he ordered, ignoring her words. She gave him a pitiful look, but obeyed, leaning heavily against the wall. He gave the infant back to her, murmuring, "Do not drop her, or I shall be very displeased."

"I wouldn't—" She began, then gasped when the prince scooped her up in his arms. "Whoa. Um…what are you doing?" She asked.

Nuada was surprised by the lack of vehemence in her voice. If anything, she sounded half-asleep. He could feel her weariness pushing at him.

"I can walk," she protested.

"You are tired. And walking on that knee could damage it even further," Nuada said. Dylan was warm and limp with exhaustion in his arms. Her head lolled onto his shoulder and he found, much to his surprise, that the warm breath tickling the side of his neck and jaw did not reek of rotting meat and chemicals like most humans. Instead he smelled the cool sharp scent of cinnamon mingling with the sweet crispness of parsley on her breath. Her head was a gently warm, almost reassuring weight on his shoulder.

 _Very much like a sleeping babe_ , he thought.

Aloud he said, "Come, we visit my sanctuary so that we may see to the child. Then we will return to your home. After, I shall find someone to care for the little one, someone who can take her to my father's hall."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Dylan mumbled. "I'm sorry I'm so tired. I ran as fast as I could to get here and I'm not used to carrying babies." One hand caressed the cap of thin, silky curls on the baby's head. The infant was cradled in the cup of Dylan's body made by the way the Elf carried her.

"And I'm sorry my leg's busted," she added. She knew she was babbling and couldn't seem to stop herself. She'd been up since dawn, woken by nightmares, and it was now well past midnight. The events of the evening only added to the exhaustion. "Shouldn't hafta carry me. Sorry. We have to stop meeting like this—danger lurking and blood everywhere. And sorry I got you in trouble."

"Eamonn has been looking for a way to 'get me in trouble,' as you put it, for several centuries," Nuada grumbled. Despite the grumble, however, a smile teased the corners of his mouth. Did the human know she sounded half-drunk when she was coming down off a cresting wave of fear and adrenaline? "At least this way I need not worry about hiding my connection to you. He never meant it when he said he would reconsider."

"Oh." A wealth of sourness in a single syllable. Had she truly believed he would? No human could have such faith in the word of another…could they? Yet Dylan had such faith in  _him_ , to run so far in search of him when danger threatened.

"Dylan. What you did. It was…" What to say? Brave? A human did not understand bravery. Commendable? Also inapplicable to humans. What, then? "It was well meant. I…was…"

His jaw tightened. He could not say grateful. He could not express gratitude to a mortal. He could not feel gratitude toward a human.

"I'm sorry it didn't work," Dylan murmured dejectedly, saving him. "I should've made him swear to keep quiet. Sorry."

They walked through the tunnels in silence, veiled by glamour as the night passed. After a long time, Nuada whispered, "No need." But by then, Dylan and the baby were both sound asleep in his arms.

**.**

Wink stared when the prince he had known since Nuada's childhood strode in carrying a sleeping mortal spattered with blood, who served as a living cradle for a halfling baby that burbled in sleep. The brownie cheeped like a small bird and ducked behind the troll's leg as Nuada came in and laid the slumbering woman on his own bed, despite the blood smeared across her skin and the reek of iron and humanity seeping from her body.

"Who is  _that?"_ It was all Wink could think to say. He knew  _what_ it was, and the why of her presence seemed to hinge on her identity. He noted with almost scientific approval that she curved her arms to support the sleeping bairn and cradle her close to the human's breast.

"Dylan," Nuada murmured.

The great, silver troll blinked and looked at the mortal with new eyes. This blood-splashed, injured woman was the one to bring the crown prince of Bethmoora back from the brink of death, using human medicines? Somehow he'd expected her to be…taller. Prettier. Less scarred. Less human looking.

Stupid, he knew…but he'd never seen a healer with a face like a traitor's bare back after a flogging. Little wonder, then, why Nuada had felt compelled to save her. Was the babe hers? But no, the brownie had said she was running away with the bairn.

The crown prince caught the troll's eye, then knelt before the brownie.

"My thanks,  _mo duinne_ , for the information that this human wandered our tunnels. I am most grateful. She shall be attended to shortly. Do you have a safe place to go?"

"Yes, Your Highness." The brownie bobbed curtsies to the golden-haired prince as she stepped back. She knew a dismissal when she heard it. "My nest is not far. My thanks to you." And she scurried away almost as quickly as she'd come. But Nuada was turning back to the sleeping human before the tiny faery had disappeared from sight.

"What is it the Fates want me to do with you?" He said softly, gazing down at her. At the way she cradled the burbling, oblivious baby in her arms, though she slumbered too.

Fear and the ebb of adrenaline, relief and the fresh spike of terror at Eamonn's appearance and words and threats—it had all been too much for Dylan, especially after she had worked all day. Nuada knew most humans attended their places of employment at least eight hours a day. The prince had a feeling that this particular mortal spent much longer healing the broken minds and hearts of her people's young ones.

"The Fates…or the gods…or the Highest of all gods…what is it they want of me? What does He want of me?"

"My prince?" Wink grunted.

The prince did not hear or, if he did, did not acknowledge the troll. Instead, he brooded. About Eamonn—nothing to be done there. Only to wait for the summons from his father, and to pray. He almost scoffed. As if prayer would do anyone any good.

And he brooded about the child—where to take it. To Nuala, who knew many of the ladies at court and many of the common women. Nuala would know what to do with the bairn. But Nuada knew his twin sister would not be happy to see him. She was never happy to see him anymore. Had not been since before his exile.

And he brooded about Dylan. About the way relief had flared in her eyes when she had recognized him tonight. The way she'd thrown her free arm around him, sobbing. Her tears had seemed to burn his skin. His hands had trembled at the shock of her embrace. Revulsion…and yet…if revulsion, why had he not struck her? Thrust her more strongly away? Something other than firmly but carefully place her away from him. What emotion had gripped his belly as her scalding tears soaked his shirt and her sobbing breath warmed his skin?

Not disgust. Not hatred. Shock, yes, but more than shock. Something fierce and burning inside him.

The need to protect her. She had been in fear for her life, for the life of the halfling child. That fear had been hot enough to make her relieved tears burn. Sharp enough to cut away all of her common sense and let her throw her arms around him. Actually embrace him.

Even as they'd trudged through the tunnels, both of them bleeding and a kiss from death that first night of meeting, she had not been that afraid.

"Or maybe she had," he said aloud, "and hidden it. Then why show it now? Why let me see her fear instead of hiding it from me?"

"Because something has changed," Wink said, startling the prince from his thoughts. "She must trust you now. More than she did before, at least. Else she would not show weakness to you now, unless the fear was greater this time. Was it?"

"No," Nuada said slowly. "Equal, but no greater. I would almost say less. As if…as if she knew there was danger, but that she would be all right, no matter what happened to her."

"She trusts you, then."

 _Trusts me. By the shades of Annwn, why?_ The Elven prince wondered. Shook his head. Now was not the time for this.

"Wink, fill a bowl with water and bring me a cloth. The child is filthy and needs to be cleaned at least a little. The human blood might make her ill. And summon a will-o-the-wisp to me. I wish to send a message to my sister."

"I will clean the baby," the burly troll mumbled, approaching the recumbent form of the sleeping mortal. "I still remember what it takes to bathe a bairn."

But when the troll tried to scoop up the infant from the slumbering arms, Dylan's grip tightened and she made a soft sound of distress. Upset marred the usually sleep-smoothed features.

"My prince. She won't release the child."

Nuada's gaze caught a flicker of motion the moment before Dylan's eyelashes fluttered and her eyes opened. Silvery blue eyes like the sea after a storm zeroed in on Wink's whiskery, tusked face of pale blue, leathery flesh. Nuada tensed, waiting for the human to scream or attempt to get away from Wink. Would she hurt the baby in her panic?

Instead, Dylan sat up slowly, shifting the child in her arms. She peered up at Wink with calm eyes and made a series of harsh, almost boar-like grunting sounds.

Wink's jaw dropped in astonishment. Then the troll threw back his head and laughed. Nuada had understood what Dylan had said in the gruff, though strangely formal language of the cave trolls. Although it had been with much more flowery words, as Trollish was often very verbose, she'd basically pleaded, " _Please don't eat me."_

"You neglected to tell me your human spoke the Troll tongue, my prince," Wink said, thick chest still rumbling with amusement.

"I did not know," the prince said softly. To Dylan he added, "Where did you learn to speak Troll?"

"I can't speak Troll. 'Don't eat me' is about the only thing I can say besides making a rude comment about your friend's tusks and trollhood, and I don't want to do that. I like living."

Dylan didn't flinch when Wink bellowed another laugh, but Nuada saw her blink rapidly several times. Then the giant faery clapped the mortal on the shoulder, albeit more gently than he would have done to his prince.

"Are you certain she is human?" Wink asked. "I almost half-like her."

"Sometimes I wonder," Nuada muttered. "Give the child to Wink. He will care for her until I return."

"Where are you going?" Dylan couldn't repress the spike of fear that shot through her at the thought of Nuada leaving her here. She wasn't afraid of the troll. She just didn't like being without the Elven prince in any of his magical homes. The mortal had always felt safest when the prince was in the sanctuary with her. Safest, seated before her fire reading tales to him.

"I am taking you home."

**.**

_I am taking you home_ , he'd said. And so he did. In a silent sojourn through back alleys and the strangely empty darkness of Central Park, Nuada had been a somber shadow beside her as the Elven warrior took her back to her cottage. Glamour kept anyone from seeing them; convenient, that, since her clothes were spattered with blood.

When they arrived at the cottage, Dylan simply stopped and pressed her forehead to the cool stone door. Summer still held sway in New York City, and the gentle chill of the smooth granite pushed back the prickling heat a little. She just had to stop. Her leg ached abominably from the rapid dash through the subway to find Nuada and protect the halfling baby she'd somehow managed to rescue.

Sweat dampened the back of her tunic. Terror still breathed hot against the back of her neck. That Elf, Eamonn, had killed a pregnant mortal and her fae husband just to somehow set Nuada up. That knowledge left a revolting taste in Dylan's mouth.

A gentle touch on her shoulder made her jump. She glanced over her shoulder at Nuada, who stood in the barely-there light of a waning crescent moon. Fear surged up in her throat and tried to catch her in a strangling grip. She suddenly wanted to fling herself into Nuada's arms and cling to him as she had when she'd found him in the subway…

But if she did that, he'd be furious. Dylan knew she didn't dare.

"Thank you for escorting me," she whispered.

He inclined his head in that simple, regal gesture she was so familiar with from the months spent in his underground sanctuary and in her cottage. And yet…why didn't he speak?

Dylan unlocked the door and gestured for Nuada to come in, but he shook his head and started to turn away. She must've made some sound, though, because he paused and looked back at her.

"Be careful," she said. "Please be careful, Your Highness."

He looked away then. A cold shiver of dread whispered down Dylan's spine. She whispered his name, but he didn't look at her. He only sighed once, softly. Then Nuada left the cottage without a word, a silver-edged shadow in the night.

Dylan stared at the open doorway where only a moment before the tall warrior had stood. The prince had been unwilling—unable?—to meet her eyes before vanishing. The mortal couldn't stop the sudden frisson of fear that shivered up her spine as she wondered if there were things about tonight that Nuada wasn't telling her.

Her little black kitten, Bat, stretched up on his hind legs, put his front paws on her good knee, and meowed loudly, startling her. Darn it, the wind was getting in while she stood woolgathering.

The mortal shook her head and forced her feet to move. Dylan carefully shut the heavy granite door.

As the latch clicked, as she bolted the many locks, only two thoughts pulsed through her mind:  _Be careful, Nuada._

 _Heavenly Father…what do I do_   _now?_

**.**

A couple months passed, and Nuada did not return.

She filled her days with patient appointments; counseling sessions at a teen's shelter and at the local juvenile detention center; late-afternoon dinner dates with John; a few awkward shopping trips with Francesca; sessions with her Sight-kids; physical therapy, both with the mortal Dr. Vaughn and the narasimha healer, Lakshmi, to help combat the damage done in the long flight through the subway last winter.

At the doctor's office a couple weeks after the encounter with Eamonn, Dylan got a new prescription for her bad knee. At her psychiatrist's office, she received a renewal of the prescriptions she'd been "taking" for the last six-odd years. Considered, as per usual, which of the various pharmaceuticals were more likely to be addictive, which ones she could afford to let rot in her medicine cabinet, and which ones she would actually have to take in order to be able to function.

She took none of the anti-depressants or anti-anxiety meds. Unfortunately the Vicodin was not a medication she could throw out; without it, every step was a small piece of torture. Still, she continued to merely take one pill instead of the prescribed dosage of three. She didn't  _need_  medication to get through her life, darn it. Not after what basically amounted to three months in rehab as a young woman in college.

She could handle it.

Dylan talked on the phone with Anya and Joyce about whether they meant to go camping in December (Joyce-the-snow-fetishist said  _yes_  while Dylan and Anya emphatically said  _no_ ). Her older sister Gardenia surprised her by inviting her to the Halloween party the older woman was throwing at her house. The psychiatrist promised to try and be there. Both Petra and Gardenia invited their younger sister over for Thanksgiving in a month or so. Dylan accepted, though she was fairly certain those invitations would be redacted before the actual day.

None of these things helped to ease the nervousness growing day by day, night by night. With every moonrise, Dylan's hope for seeing Nuada rose, only to plummet when he didn't come.

She would wait with her favorite book,  _Once Upon a Winter's Night,_  which they'd agreed to start now that they'd finished  _Conan the Barbarian._  She waited for a knock at the door. Waited for that sudden sense of awareness that told her the Elven prince was there.

But in the end, he never came.

The temperatures began to drop. The leaves changed from summer green to autumnal colors—russet and antique gold and orange, ruby and umber and gold as pale as winter sunlight. Frost crept across the ground. Eventually snow began drifting from skies pregnant with dove-gray clouds.

And still he didn't come back.

Dylan always fell asleep curled up on the huge armchair in the living room, sucked into exhausting nightmares fueled by memories and worry for the Elven prince. She would always wake in the middle of the night to the realization that another night had passed without word that the feral-eyed warrior was safe. Then Dylan would trudge to her room and fall asleep on her bed, struggling to ignore the growing fear skittering up and down her spine like insect legs.

She prayed for him, morning and night. Feared for him. What if that other Elf managed to hurt him? So she prayed for some word, some sign. There was nothing. She kept waiting. Kept praying. Kept fearing.

 _Nuada,_  Dylan thought every night as she drifted off to sleep.  _Nuada, where are you?_

**.**

When the summons came, nearly three moons later, the Elven prince was almost grateful. For nearly three months he had stayed away from Dylan, even though she had promised to read him something called  _Once Upon a Winter's Night_. The tale had sounded interesting, and the mortal's enthusiasm and affection for it had tempted him.

But if King Balor's messenger were to find Nuada in the home of the woman he supposedly sported with, it would only cause problems for him.

Instead, he spent the now-empty nights training. He went through the various  _kata_ and  _taolu_ he'd learned over the centuries, as well as other fighting forms, and practiced against Wink with swords and lances and—at Wink's insistence—war axes. It had been his lack of skill with the heavy weapons that had gotten him into this mess in the first place, the troll had pointed out, and Nuada had been forced to accede his point.

Finally, only a few days ere Samhain, as he and Wink bowed to each other, sweat dampening flesh and silvery blond hair, the summons came.

"Crown Prince Nuada, Heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, Exiled One, Eldest Scion of the One-Armed King of Elfland." The voice that addressed the Elven warrior could have frosted glass with its iciness.

Nuada turned toward the speaker and cocked his head. Wink knew that if Nuada's human saw the prince's face at that moment, she would have described him as feral, alien.

 _And_ , the troll thought,  _if I don't miss my mark, beautiful_. He knew the mortal was of the rare sort to appreciate the unearthly beauty of the Kindly Folk.

"Who are you?" Nuada demanded, though he already knew. "What is it you want?"

It was one of the rare black centaurs from the desert plains of the continent the humans called Africa, the Elven-ruled fae kingdom called Nyame. The warm firelight from the hearth flickered and danced over flesh like polished ebony and a black-striped white hide. When the centaur smiled, light glinted off of strangely sharp teeth. He carried no sword, only twin long-axes across his back and crossed, white leather bandoleers sporting small throwing daggers over his chest. He clapped a fist to his heart and bowed at the waist to the prince.

"I am Enitan MacBrannagh, of the King's Messengers. I hereby summon the Exiled Prince to return to Bethmoora, to the Golden Throne of Balor, the One-Armed King of Elfland, for trial on the charges of deviant cruelty toward, and the violent murder of mortals, as well the rapine of and conspiracy to murder another mortal."

Nuada fought the shock of pain that burned through him, fought to shove it down into the dark where none could feel it or find it, not even Nuala. But Wink saw, just for an instant, the vicious hurt and the utter shock that Balor could accuse his son of such crimes. Then there was nothing but cold acceptance in the colder eyes of the seemingly-indifferent Elven prince.

Of course the king would see it that way. Nuada understood that. Glamouring a human or even another faery into submitting to him and allowing him to bed her was rape according to the laws of the Fae, and of course that could be the only way he would choose to bring a mortal to his bed—by trickery and deceit.

And because he must, of course, have some sort of vile plan for this human that involved pain, torture, emotional distress, and eventually a bloody and agonizing death, that fell under "deviant cruelty" and "plotting to murder."

 _Will you never think well of me, Father?_ The words brought a cold fist of soul-pain slamming deep into his belly, though he gave no outward sign of it. He only stared unblinkingly at the messenger.

"I will come tonight, at full moon-rise." Now the prince smiled. There was no amusement in it. "If I am to be slandered and abused by my father's court, I should look the part of the Exiled Prince, should I not?"

Enitan fought the urge to back away from the prince. Though the words seemed to be nothing but the resignation of a man giving himself up to justice, there was something in the Elf's eyes that raised the hair on the centaur's back. He knew, suddenly, that nothing he did would make the Elf arrive sooner than he had agreed to. Trying to force the issue would only get him killed.

"I will give the king your answer," Enitan murmured. With his fist still pressed against his heart, he bowed and backed up until he could turn around and gallop away, eager to escape the icy hatred in the prince's gaze.

"My prince," Wink began, but one look from the Elven warrior silenced the burly troll.

"They will not kill me for this, Wink," the prince replied after a moment of tense silence. "Try to break me, yes. But they have tried before, and always they fail. I do not fear this trial."

"You need only tell them the truth—"

"The truth will avail me  _nothing,"_ Nuada spat suddenly, and the nearly-mad fire of pain in his eyes burned like the molten gold heart of a star. "Nothing. I need only endure. It has always been enough. It will be enough now."

The Elven prince did not see the brownie that had stood near the entryway skitter off. But Wink did, and wondered why she had come and where she was going now.

**.**

Dylan fought against the urge to pace as she tried to pore over  _Esther_  in the  _Old Testament_. It was one of her favorite stories, and she had to read it for one of her Integrity Value Experiences. Usually she felt comforted by the profoundly moving story of a young girl—based on the historical setting, she couldn't have been more than sixteen or so—who risked death to protect her people. A comforting tale, like a favorite bedtime story pulled from the shelf and dusted off, to be heard one more time.

But not tonight. Despite the purple colored pencil and gel pen beside her, ready to highlight and box important or relevant bits, she couldn't seem to focus.

 _It's nearly time for Nuada to come,_  she thought, then reminded herself that the Elven prince wouldn't be coming tonight. It had been more than two months (almost three, as October was nearly done) since that headlong race to find the prince amid the subway tunnels, a blood-spattered madman on her heels and an orphaned baby in her arms.

Despite herself, the mortal found herself wishing Nuada yet again would come just to show her he was all right. Had that bloodthirsty Elf—what was his name? Eamonn?—managed to hurt him? Was everything okay?

Maybe doing the write-up for the experience in her journal would help. With an edgy sigh and a shove at the unrestrained curls falling into her face, she pulled out the four-inch black binder that served as her current journal (her last one being a gray binder of the same size) and flicked the rings open so she could pull out the paper.

Somehow, writing with a gel pen on the first page of a stack of paper gave her a strange sense of peace. The soft scritching of pen nib on paper, the scent of ink, and the cushioning of the stack of blank pages ready to be filled usually soothed her. Dylan shuffled the papers until they were even with each other. Pushing at her hair again, she clicked her pen.

Bat took a casual kitten-swipe at it, and she bapped him lightly on the nose. The black kitten flopped over on his back and waved his little paws in the air, desperate to take down this heinous offender. Dylan laughed and poked him in his pudgy belly. The cat mewed in outrage, baring tiny white teeth as sharp as needles. He squirmed and wriggled, trying to catch hold of the pen, until his gyrations rolled him off the table and onto the floor with a  _plop_. Bat glared up at Dylan before curling into a ball and closing his eyes in disgust.

Her momentary distraction gone, Dylan began to write in her journal.

" _In the Book of Esther, Esther's uncle (actually he's her cousin) Mordecai shows his integrity when he refuses to worship Haman, even though the King has made it the law that everyone has to bow down and worship this guy. Because Mordecai is a Jew, he cannot worship any gods but Yahweh. He's standing up for his beliefs as well as the law he has promised to obey before he agreed to serve the King._

" _Integrity and honor are important because if you don't have them, how can anyone trust you? Although honor and integrity are not the same thing, they're closely linked. Integrity is a part of honor._

" _If you lack honor, why should you choose to speak truthfully? And if you speak falsely, you dishonor yourself. Lying is considered dishonorable. And without integrity, if you vow to stand for something, why should anyone take you seriously? They won't say, 'Your honor prevents you from speaking falsely.' They'd be like, 'You're a big, fat coward who wouldn't know honor if it jumped up and bit you on the butt. We don't trust you as far as we can spit.'"_

Ugh. It wasn't working. If anything, all the thinking about integrity and honor made her think about Nuada even more. She remembered Nuada deliberating as to whether to kill her, thinking and testing her by her words. What had she said to him?

_A prince without personal honor cannot hope to be an honorable ruler to his people and a dishonorable ruler brings shame to his kingdom._

Rapid tapping at the window wrenched her rudely from her thoughts. Frowning, she pushed up from the table and limped toward the window. A tiny form pounded small fists against the panes of glass. When Dylan drew close enough to discern the shape, she realized it was a  _very_  upset brownie.

She flicked the three locks on the windows and drew them open. "Come in,  _mo duinne,_  if you mean me no harm, and be welcome."

The diminutive creature, draped in flashy scraps of fabric she'd probably scored from the local streetwalkers, scurried inside and began chattering agitatedly in Old Gaelic. Dylan struggled to keep up, but the little thing was chirping and squeaking so fast she grasped maybe one word out of six.

Finally, she threw up both hands and cried, "Wait, wait! Hold on. Slower, please."

"She says the Exiled Prince is in danger," a soft, lisping voice said from Dylan's elbow.

She squeaked and tried to whirl to see who was speaking, but her bad leg buckled. Only the wall's presence kept her from collapsing. As she blinked and tried to right herself, the mortal saw another brownie, this one clad in a simple brown homespun shirt and trews, push back a tangled mop of black curls and blink pupil-less black eyes at Dylan.

"I am Becan Brownie, your hearth sprite. And the prince, the one who used to visit—he is in trouble."

Dylan stared at the two small fae for a long moment before letting herself sink to the floor, where she could get a little more comfortable. Fear was a living, breathing animal in her stomach, in her chest. The mortal couldn't let it have control. Taking a deep breath, she looked to the little creature that had slipped in through her window.

"Tell me everything you know."

**.**

Wink paused outside the corridor that would lead to Balor's Hall. He glanced once at the strangely silent Elven prince at his side. Nuada only stared straight ahead, glacial topaz eyes locked on the vast double doors shrouded in shadow. Between the two warriors and the doors were several hidden Butcher Guards and, more than likely, that sycophantic little toad, Iríall the Lord Chamberlain.

"Both my heart and my feet are heavy at this parting, my prince," Wink grunted in the Troll Tongue. He knew the court toadies would not stoop so low as to learn the tongue of the silver trolls. "Every instinct warns me of danger and hidden treachery."

"I know it," the prince replied in the same tongue. "Eamonn will do his best to see me shamed this night. I am prepared for him."

"Should we not have told…the human woman?" Something in the Elf's gaze warned Wink against using the mortal's name. "Surely she would come and defend you from these charges. She would tell your father the truth."

"The truth avails nothing in Balor's court anymore. Humanity's poison has oozed too deeply into our world and our people. And even if she did come…"

But no human would ever do such a foolish thing. Not for one his people. Not even Dylan. And if she did…

"They would say, as they have already said, that I use my Elf magic to beguile her, to enchant and deceive her. They would not believe her to be in her right mind. And besides, I was not given leave to bring her. To come before the king of Elfland without summons can be a death sentence, with no respect to mortality or magic, rank or status, unless the king gives his pardon. My honor prevents me from endangering her thus."

With a sigh, the burly troll glanced toward the moon cresting the horizon. As the last sliver of iridescent celestial orb glided above the horizon line, something icy settled over Nuada and he let out a breath.

"It is time. Goodbye, my friend. Wait for me as agreed."

Wink fought against the steps he wanted to take after Nuada, who strode slowly toward the double doors and the silent, waiting Butchers. Instead of following after his prince, he turned away and trudged back to the corridor where those not summoned who had an interest in the Court proceedings were ordered to wait.

**.**

Dylan limped through the dense forests of Central Park, scanning the night-shadowed brush for the one she sought. Becan and the other little brownie, Brighid, scurried after her. The mortal knew there were Hunters in the Park. She just had to find them. And once she did, she had to convince them that it was in their best interest to help her.

 _Nuada, you moron,_  she thought as rose thorns lashed her arms. The small fae following her had no trouble dodging and crawling through the small openings in the brambles.  _Why didn't you tell me you'd need an advocate? You absolute and complete_  moron!

Once she was deep into the woods, well off the path and far away from the garish electric lights the city lit after sunset, she stopped and took a deep breath. All around her were the scents of pine resin, crushed ferns, the musk of forest creatures, and the sweetness of night air purified by the Bright People.

She took it all in on a breath, and let out her fear and irritation on another breath. She had to give herself over to what was right, and pray God's plan for her didn't involve dying that night.

Dylan closed her eyes and said, softly, in very formal Gaelic, "I am a daughter of forest and mountain, desert and plains, stars and the deeps. I follow the High King of the World, the Lamplighter of the Moon, the Star Kindler; I am a follower of the Son of the King. I am the High King's daughter, and I ask a Hunter to come to me, for I have need this night. I ask not for myself, but for another, and I ask in the name of the Atoning Prince, the Holy One of the Lost Tribes. I speak truth."

Becan and Brighid stared at the mortal, surprised at the lyrical, ancient words spilling off her tongue. The words held the cadence and intonations of a prayer, and the expectation and utter serenity on Dylan's face reminded Becan of how she looked while saying her morning and evening prayers in her living room every day.

Dylan opened her eyes as the foliage ahead of her rustled softly. She held out one hand, thinking,  _Please, Heavenly Father, let this be a Hunter and not some kind of freaky flesh-eating forest goblin ora satyr or something._

A large stag, antlers many-pronged and so tall they seemed to be brushing the sky, stepped out of the forest green and approached her sedately. Liquid gold eyes like the heart of summer captured hers and wouldn't let go. Dylan knew what the faerie stag was searching her eyes for—the truth. If she had spoken falsely, he'd disembowel her with his rather impressive rack of antlers. If she spoke truth…well, at least he'd hear what her request  _was_  before disemboweling her with his rack of razor-sharp antlers.

When the golden-furred stag bowed his crowned head, Dylan lowered her hand and bowed back. When she'd straightened, there was no stag in the middle of the woods. There was only a man, with curly tawny hair tinged with streaks of green and auburn, and eyes like liquid sunlight just before sunset on midsummer. That same massive set of antlers thrust through the lion-gold curls.

"Why do you call a Hunter, mortal woman? It behooves us to answer the prayers of those with light in their hearts because of our fealty to the High King of all life. But I have done all that is required of me. What is it you wish? If it offends me, there will be a price."

 _He's going to rip my guts out,_ Dylan thought frantically.  _No way will he agree to this, he's going to rip my guts outs, I'm going to die, and then—_ shut up!

She mentally slapped herself.  _Get a_  grip.  _Just have to make sure I speak carefully. It's not like I haven't had tons of practice with the prince._

"I require assistance in coming to the aid of Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor. What I ask is only so that I may prevent him from coming to harm." Heart pounding, fear-sweat slicking her palms, she cast the woodman a beseeching look. "I must get to the court of Bethmoora, but I do not know the way, and I have to hurry. They're going to do something horrible to him. I owe the prince a debt. He shouldn't have to suffer because he showed me compassion."

Brighid chirped in at that point. Dylan supposed the brownie was backing her up.  _Heavenly Father, I hope so._

The passage of time itched over the mortal woman's skin as she waited for the Hunter to speak. She hadn't actually made her request because she had to know if he even believed what she was saying. If he didn't, and she asked him what she planned, he'd literally unspool her intestines from her body before trampling her to death.

Molten gold eyes pinned her. She tried not to blink. Tried only to think of Nuada. Brighid didn't know what would happen to the Elven prince once he got to this so-called trial—she refused to take the name seriously, since the Elven warrior couldn't even take Wink with him as a witness for his side—but the brownie was married to a domovik, and had learned how to sense the emotions of the Bigger Folk. There had been a black morass of feeling and sensations swirling around Bethmoora's crown prince, emotions that had made the brownie fear very much for him. Something was going to happen to him, something bad. Not fatal—at least, the brownie didn't think so. But something terrible. And that was what she'd told Dylan.

"You speak truly. What is your request?"

 _Here we go,_  Dylan thought, praying silently that she wasn't about to feel the rough, dagger-sharp prongs of the golden Gentry stag. Aloud, all she said was, "I need a ride to the Golden Hall of King Balor, and your kind are the fastest things in Central Park."

Those liquid eyes flashed. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut and braced for the belly cut.

**.**

What troubles you, my sister?" The Elven prince was acutely aware of Wink's absence and the Chamberlain' and guards' presence at his back as he strode down the corridor toward the doors. He deftly slaughtered the wisp of hurt in his chest when his sister refused to meet his eyes. He spoke softly, for her ears alone. "You cannot even meet my gaze."

"I do not know you," she said coolly. Her long, black skirts shushed over the stone floor as she glided forward. His sister wore black and white this night. Black for death, white for mourning. Did she expect their father to execute him tonight? What would happen to her if Balor  _did_  attempt to execute him? "It pains me to see a stranger looking out at me from my beloved brother's face, so I do not look."

Nuada could feel his sister's grief and disappointment, though she tried to shield herself from his mind. She truly thought him a monster. Thought him capable of the crimes their father suspected him of. It would have incensed him if it had not left a bleeding hole in his heart.

He wondered, in a distant way, if this was the feeling that fed humans and their viciousness, their evil and greed and pride. This pain, this sense of deep loss threatening to choke and smother.

 _Dylan does not allow such dark feelings to infect her,_ Nuada thought, vaguely surprised that the thought had even occurred to him. But he let it continue to unfurl in his mind, wondering if his sister could hear the thought.  _She has suffered much, yet the hole in her heart is very small. How does she manage such a thing?_

"You think me guilty, then?" He asked, giving nothing of his thoughts away. The prince already knew the answer, but there was a sudden burning in his chest, a fierce need to  _force_ Nuala to admit that she did not trust him, did not care for him or love him anymore. Thought him a vicious beast capable of rape, murder, and other atrocities. If that was what she felt, he wanted her to admit it, not dance around it like a courtier. And if she did not believe it, he wanted her to stop behaving as if she did.

For a fleeting moment, she met his eyes. Winced. Looked away.

That was answer enough. She half-believed it. Almost had herself convinced of his guilt. Was even closer to convincing herself that she did not  _want_  to believe it, but he was not fooled. His sister wanted a reason to condemn him. She could not rightfully condemn his desire to protect their people, so she would find something else.

And she would not look into his mind to find the truth for herself. His twin sister considered her brother's mind a filthy and loathsome trap, to be avoided at all costs. Just that knowledge had the strength to steal his iron control long enough for the pain in his chest to unfurl, just a little, before he quickly smothered it again. He would not let his beloved sister feel that kind of pain.

Before he could speak again, the doors to his father's Hall swung inward. The rich, amber light caressed Nuada's face. Sweet scents and perfumes wafted on the sudden breezes. Soft, chiming music lilted on the air. And the Elven prince could not stop the leap his heart gave when he saw his father's face, nor the way it plummeted sickeningly into his belly when he saw the condemnation, anger, and despair on the noble features. In fact, he saw himself condemned in every countenance that would look on him, save one.

Eamonn's eyes glinted with smug satisfaction as he watched Nuada approach without Wink, and without weapons.

 _Dylan,_ Nuada thought, surprising himself again.  _She has never looked at me this way. Not even when I had her by the throat and meant to kill her. She never looked at me as if I were an animal, or a criminal. How strange that a human thinks more highly of me than my own kin._

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," King Balor said in a ringing voice. As a boy, that tone had been enough to make the young Elven prince's spine snap straight and his shoulders square at attention. Now it only saddened him. "You are here to be tried for the charges of deviant cruelty toward, and the violent murder of mortals, as well as the rapine of and conspiracy to murder another mortal. Do you have anything to say to these accusations?"

For just a moment, he considered explaining. His father would believe him. His father would understand. After what had happened to his mother, rape was the only thing that could ever provoke Nuada into defending a human. It was the one thing he would  _never_  stand for.

Then he thought of Dylan: shouting a warning as one of the human wolves moved to attack him; forcing him to let her aid him in getting to safety; removing the bullets and stitching his wounds even as she shivered with pain and swayed with blood loss; mending his clothes and scrubbing the bloodstained floor of his sanctuary; trying to protect him from the leanashe; toasting apple and cheese sandwiches before the fireplace; the steady sound of her voice as she read her favorite tales to him; her arm flung around him in relief and welcome and a release of terror as she sobbed into his chest, knowing she could weep now because he was there and she was safe.

The one thing that would save him was the one thing he could not say. Everything else was meaningless. To share pain, vulnerability, heartache…it was forbidden among the fae to do so without express permission. Sharing weakness could get a person killed in Faerie. He would not dishonor or endanger Dylan thus. Would not offer up her few weaknesses as coin to buy his pardon. He could not deny the charges, though his honor chafed him, demanding justice. Demanding truth. He knew there would be neither. Neither would avail him.

"No," he said calmly, tonelessly. Revealing nothing. "I have nothing to say."

Nuada caught a flicker of grief in his father's eyes. For himself, his pain? Or for the pain that would be inflicted on his sister? Nuala stood rigidly beside him, her hands clamped tightly before her as she stared past her brother, as if he were a mirage she knew wasn't real.

Then Balor stood. His voice was heavy with weariness and quiet anger when he spoke.

"Silverlance, you have broken the treaty with the humans by your actions. Even a prince may not transgress the law of kings. I will not give you death, Crown Prince, and deprive myself of both my heirs in one night. I will, however, see you punished."

The Elven warrior closed his eyes. Braced himself. The words were still like a blow to the belly.

"Two thousand lashes by iron."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In Artemis Fowl, Fae refer to humans as Mud People/Mud Men.
> 
> \- The quote "I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded" is from 1 Nephi 3:7, Book of Mormon. Since Dylan is Mormon, she would know that scripture. It's one of those verses Mormons reference a lot.
> 
> \- The book Dylan reads in the first scene is Conan the Barbarian.
> 
> \- Nursery is the name for LDS Sunday School for kids 18 mos to 3 yrs.
> 
> \- "I Am a Child of God" is one of the few Primary songs (Primary is kids up to12) in the adult hymn book. It's pretty simple, so emotional duress won't affect Dylan's ability to sing it. And babies like to be sung to and cuddled, especially when they're upset.
> 
> \- No, Nuada really can't mention Dylan being raped. It would be dishonorable because in the world he comes from, women are taught to protect their honor (aka virtue, aka chastity, aka don't let guys rape you) and sharing the fact that Dylan had been thusly dishonored would be dishonorable in and of itself. And the one thing about Nuada that makes him so redeemable (besides the second thing, which is his love for his people) is that he clings to his honor until the very last moment. I think Guillermo Del Toro made a good move in that he didn't have Nuada die until the minute he gave up his honor (trying to stab Hellboy in the back).
> 
> \- Dark elf: an Elf with dark hair. Not a species' name; merely an adjective to describe brown or black hair. Not to be confused with dökkálfar, the Dark Elves of Scandinavian myth.
> 
> \- The Darkness That Eats All Things is the living darkness that eats oathbreakers who swear falsely by its name . I read about it in Meredith Gentry.
> 
> \- The quote about chastity is also from the Book of Mormon; Jacob 2:28. That scripture is one of the ones used to teach LDS girls about chastity while working on Virtue Value Experience #1 for the Young Women's Personal Progress, so it would stand to reason she has it memorized.
> 
> \- "I would not say such things if I were you." Yes, boys and girls, that was a reference to the Princess Bride.
> 
> \- "Give me the child." Also a movie quote. Gotta love Labyrinth. Especially since you have a blond Fae asking a dark-haired girl for a baby in both this fic and that film. Woot.
> 
> \- Bairn: not sure if that's the Gaelic word for baby or the English word with a Gaelic accent, but it means baby or child.
> 
> \- Mo duinne: Gaelic phrase meaning "my brown one."
> 
> \- Once Upon a Winter's Night by Dennis McKiernan is the first book in a quintet. It's a retelling of "East of the Sun, West of Moon" set in France's Faerie Realm (although the MC is from someplace way far north; imagine a French bard talking about Scandinavia or somewhere like that). It's awesome and I love it. It's also a book written in a style I think Nuada would like.
> 
> \- Kata: sequences of martial arts moves to help the body learn muscle memory and to teach form, speed, and focus (the moves Nuada was doing in the beginning of HB2– those were from a kata, although probably a made-up one).
> 
> \- Black centaurs, as portrayed in this fic, are inspired by the black centaur from the Neverending Storyby Michael Ende. If you've seen the original film, there's a black guy who says the Empress wants to see Atreyu (one of the 2 MCs), and Atreyu pops up and the guy's like, "Not Atreyu-the-Child! Atreyu the Warrior." Turns out both Atreyu's are the same person – oops. But that black guy is supposed to be a centaur, they just didn't have the technology at the time to do it.
> 
> \- The name Doyle means Darkness.
> 
> \- The story of Esther is in the Bible. For Young Women's Personal Progress Integrity Value Experience #3, you have to read the Book of Esther as well as other scriptures and write in your journal how the people in the reading showed integrity. There's other things, but that's the thing relevant to reading the Scriptures.
> 
> \- Dylan has purple colored pencils and gel pens because purple is the color for the Integrity YW Value.
> 
> \- I figured Dylan's Brownie ought to show up sooner or later.
> 
> \- Becan: the name of the kid in the Irish Cinderladby Shirley Cimo, based on Douglas Hyde's Irish Cinderella story, "The Bracket Bull" and Sara Cone Bryant's "Billy Beg and His Bull."
> 
> \- Brighid: the Irish goddess of fire, the hearth, and home crafts. An appropriate name for a Brownie, I think.
> 
> \- If you want to know about the thing Dylan says to get the Faerie stag to come out, message me.
> 
> \- Hunters are inspired by "Hunter's Moon," a short story by Patricia McKillip in the anthology Green Man: Tales From the Mythic Forest. Although the antlers are just because I think guys with antlers are hot.
> 
> \- Domovik: basically, the Russian version of a brownie (Brownies being generally English/Scottish).


	2. Hunter and Hemlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Condemned by his king for crimes he did not (exactly) commit, Prince Nuada readies to bare his back to the king's whip. But a stubborn, reckless mortal may have something to say about that...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long. I'm bedbound a lot due to disabilities and I've been trying to figure out how to upload via my phone but I just gave up, so I had to scrape together the spoons to get this done now. Two new chapters for you guys!
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains flogging, torture, blood, mentions of prayer and God, emotional neglect of an adult child by a parent, emotional abuse of an adult child by a parent, poison, lung bleeds, gore, disrespect for the monarchy, mentions of rape and torture, death threats, and extremely dangerous situations. Reader discretion is advised.

**2. Hunter and Hemlock**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Shooting, Speed, Sacrifice, Slaughter, and Sin**

.

.

John shook his head once, trying to dislodge whatever was pushing against the inside of his skull. Flickering specks like Technicolor midges swarmed in front of his eyes, but he tried to ignore them. He was in the middle of taking a test. If he didn't pass, he wasn't going to get  _this_  job, either. After everything he'd been through, after everything that had happened in his life, if he didn't get this job, John Myers thought he might just give up and resign himself to a life as a hermit. Working for the Feds, knowing there was more to the job than the pitiful security details he was getting, sucked.

_ Six years of my life lost to a freaking dimensional black hole,  _ he thought _, and I pop out with my twin sister eighteen years old and fresh out of the Nut-House from Hades while I'm still twelve and scrawny and pasty as a dead fish, half-chewed up by the monsters twiddling their thumbs in the hell dimension. Then I spend two years in Shambala after graduating from high school, which is a fantastic place to chill after the rigors of academic torment, and I don't age a day. But I miss my sister's graduation from medical school. And the whole time_ , both  _times,_   _it feels like something's trying to drill its way into my skull and I can't concentrate on breathing, much less anything else. Just when I think the problem's gone, it comes back when I'm trying to test into the MIB._

What was it Dylan was always saying?  _God will test you to the breaking point; He expects you to keep your promise to deal with it and pull through_. Well, the twenty-one-year-old government-trained psychic genius knew this was going to be his breaking point. If his sister's... whatever... was messing with his head again, he was going to have some words with her.

_ Not that it's her fault, _  he reminded himself as he scribbled an answer to a quantum calculus problem on the paper. He felt eyes on him and glanced up. The other men, all of them older and in various military uniforms, were staring at him. They all had the allowed calculators and scratch paper out. John realized he'd been zipping through the doctorate-level math problems despite the cobwebby feeling in his brain and the sparkles around the edges of his vision. He ignored the others and went back to the test.

_ It's totally not her fault that the shields are down between us,  _ he continued silently as he penciled in another answer _. After what happened to her – and she still won't tell me much of anything, other than she was saved by one of_ Them –  _we've been keeping the connection blown wide in case she needs help again. Those gangsters aren't going to quit just because their buddies got killed. They're still going to be pissed at her for what she did._   _Even if their leader says to back off, they might not._   _I know it's been almost a year, but still._

And wasn't that the crapshoot of the world in a nutshell? A gang of thugs wanted his sister raped, beaten, or dead for helping a Hispanic girl get off suicide watch and get the help she needed.

_ Why don't they go after the kid's teachers or guidance counselor? They're the ones who sent the kid to Dylan. Why not go after  _ **_ them _ ** _? _  John wondered, feeling the hot bubble of anger in his chest whenever he thought about his sister's slashed and bleeding face, the broken ribs and cracked skull, not to mention the worst of it all... but he wasn't going to think about the worst of it. Couldn't, remembering what had happened to her in the institution, too. Otherwise he'd never grow calm enough to keep working. Instead, he was going to focus on his math test.

The mental midges flickering around his head kept buzzing and sparking as he bulldozed through the rest of the questions. His chest was beginning to feel tight as the single door pushed open and a tall, dark-skinned man in a black suit and tie walked in and eyed them all emotionlessly.

"All finished?" There were some mumbled negatives from a few of the assembled testers. "Too bad. Everyone who finished, follow me. Everyone who didn't, nice knowin' ya. See ya around."

John followed the suit, intensely aware that some of the Marines and Navy guys who hadn't made it through the entire test were shooting jagged-edged looks at his back and muttering. He ignored them – he'd had a lot of practice in high school at ignoring people, since everyone knew his sister had been "a complete lunatic who believed in fairies" and they'd made sure  _he_  knew it. Ignoring the tightening in his chest, too (was Dylan having a heart attack? Nah – she was healthier than he was), he followed the black man into a well-lit room with cardboard cutouts of buildings and tracks on the floor for pop-up targets to zip around. The black man handed the six men each a police-issue 9 mil.

"Nine bullets," the suit said. "Don't waste them." The lights dimmed. Faux street lamps bloomed brightly in the shadows. And then thick, white smoke filled the room and noise exploded around them.

Sirens screeched. Women screamed and babies wailed in panic. Dogs barked frantically as monsters zipped around and roared. Strobe lights flashed like exploding stars, adding to the eye-searing confusion. Gunshots boomed. Bullets whizzed past John's ear. Heart hammering, he struggled to keep his hands steady as he searched for a target. He hadn't been prepared for  _this_! The quiet shadowed hunting grounds of that alternate dimension he'd been trapped in were nothing like the chaotic, riotous hell all around him.

A sudden flash of gold across his vision. The bellow of a furious and angry king stag. Pain burned a path across his upper thigh, near his hip. A hollow weakness flooded his right leg. His knee buckled and he nearly fell. As a dark, tawny shape hurtled toward him, the bell-like roar of fury ringing in his ears, he brought up the gun and fired once before everything went black.

**. **

A flash of fury in golden eyes like liquid sunlight. The bellow of a furious and angry king stag. Dylan tried to throw herself backward as those wicked antlers lowered and thrust toward her. A hollow weakness flooded her bad leg when she put her full weight on it as it twisted under her. The damaged knee buckled and she nearly fell. Something heavy and muscular lunged past her. Pain burned a path across her upper thigh, near her hip. She turned to yell at the brownies to run, to get away so the Hunter would only hurt her. The saliva dried in her mouth and her voice faded to a croak as a dark, tawny shape turned and hurtled back toward her. A bell-like roar of fury rang in her ears.

Stinging pain scraped the insides of her thighs. Something huge shoved between her legs and for a moment fear blanked her mind, turned her eyes glassy and throttled the scream in her throat. Her mind shrieked. Not again, not  _again_! It couldn't happen to her again! Never,  _never,_ ** _never_** _!_

Then she was suddenly weightless, being flung through the air. The silvery moon burned down into her eyes and her hair whipped around her face. And in that breathless moment of fear and floating, before terror could force breath into her lungs or a scream out of them, she was seated on a broad, velvet-smooth back flexing with powerful, ridged muscles. The sharp prongs of a stag's antlers cut black swathes out of the pregnant, white moon as the Hunter, in deer shape, galloped through the thick trees of Central Park toward Bethmoora.

Dylan knew she was supposed to thank the faerie stag, but she couldn't get enough air into her terror-restricted lungs. Everything was swimming. She thought she caught sight of a red-haired troll the size of a small dog, holding a purple thing full of glowing flowers, sitting under a bridge talking to a blond teenage girl, but she didn't get a good look at either of them as the stag galloped by. Sparkles burned against the edges of her vision as she shook her head and tried to come back to herself.

_ Nuada,  _ she thought desperately, and the fear eased a little, to be replaced with determination _. I have to get to Nuada. I have to help him before something awful happens to him. Heavenly Father, please let me get there in time. I don't know what's going to happen, but please let me get there in enough time to prevent it._

Heat suffused her chest, and she felt the softest pressure on her back and shoulders and against her ribs, as if she were being embraced. Comfort stole into her heart. Dylan closed her eyes and nodded once. No matter what happened, God's hand was in it. It would all go as it was meant to, as long as she tried everything in her power to do what was right.

_ And that means getting to Nuada as fast as I can,  _ she reminded herself, but all she said aloud was, "Thank you, Sir Hunter!"

**. **

"Bare your back, Crown Prince," King Balor commanded. Not Nuada. Not even Prince Nuada. Merely "Crown Prince." Nuada fought to kill the stab of grief biting deep into his belly. There was no emotion in the king's voice, in his ancient gaze, on his withered face. And Nuala still refused to look at her twin. Her usually moon-pale face was tinged a sickly gray in anticipation of the flogging, and her eyes were shadowed. She gave no other sign that she was even aware of what was happening.

Nuada refused to look away from his father's golden eyes as he withdrew a leather thong from his pocket and tied back the thick mane of his silvery blond hair in a horsetail. Then he carefully pulled off his black leather vest without breaking eye contact. Nuada would not give Eamonn the satisfaction of looking at the dark Elf to gauge the triumph and smug satisfaction on his face, or give Nuada's father the reprieve of conscience by not gazing indifferently at the old king. In his own eyes Nuada held reproach for what his father did to him, and for what his father was allowing to happen to Nuala. Balor could not continue meeting his son's eyes, and looked away.

He handed his vest to the court page who stood ready to take it. The young woodman had the green-streaked bronze and golden curls of a Hunter, and thrice-forked antlers peeping above his hair.  _Only seven years old_ , Nuada realized,  _and forced to watch a_   _man_   _being flogged_. The child was pale, unusual for the sun-kissed forest faeries. The crown prince gave him a smile and a short, courteous bow. The boy's resin-colored eyes widened, but his color began to return a little.

_ If I behave as if this is nothing to me,  _ Nuada thought as he pulled off and carefully folded his black tunic and shirt and laid them in the boy's arms,  _he will be spared for a little longer._ He laid his silver-etched black leather vambraces atop the pile of clothing with that same casual air. The Elf knew there was nothing he could do to mediate the effect of seeing anyone stripped to rib bones and muscle by an iron-tipped whip, but the child had looked as if he might faint at any moment.

The prince drew a breath through his nose, blew it out slowly through his barely-parted black lips. Breathed carefully to keep his heart from stuttering at the thought of the whip slicing through flesh to find bone. He had been struck with a whip before, as a child and as a youth. Less often as an adult, but it had happened. Few other weapons of the Old World had ever hurt him so badly, and the healers had usually seen to him fairly soon afterward to mend those wounds. He still bore some of the scars to this day. But there would be no healers rushing to his aid this night. Only two thousand iron-tipped lashes, and the warm blood soaking his trews and running down his legs like water to pool at his feet. A delirium dream of pain and betrayal. A waking nightmare.

And there were the whipping posts. Such beauty in the silvery beams as thick as an Elf's calf and inlaid with gold-washed script in Old Gaelic. But Nuada knew the silvery sheen came from the burning iron, and the elegantly scripted Gaelic words were curses on those having their backs laid open by the whip. Iron chains reinforced with magic so that even he, the legendary Silverlance, could not break them, hung from the tops of the posts. It would burn when those shackles were clamped around his wrists.

He strode past the whispering courtiers, every step slow and measured. He never took his eyes from his father's empty countenance. He wanted to find Nuala's gaze – in the past, when he'd suffered a well-deserved strapping for disobedience, his sister's eyes had been all the comfort needed to make the pain and humiliation bearable. But he could not look away from Balor, and even if he had, Nuala would not have returned his gaze. There was no emotion from her now. Only a vast and nearly unbearable void, empty and cold, where warmth and love and peace should have been.

Nuada did not flinch when the shackles clicked shut around his wrists. Did not so much as bat an eyelash as the iron against his skin began to tingle, then itch, then burn. Even as the pain radiated up his forearms and he smelled the sickly meat stink of burning flesh, he showed nothing. He only stared at the One-Armed King of Elfland.

It was Eamonn – Eamonn, who had raised the charges against Nuada – who took up the whip with its thin, spiked iron tip. As accuser, it was Eamonn's right to determine who inflicted the prince's sentence. The Elven warrior knew that the dark Elf would never pass up the opportunity to do it himself.

Metal scraped across the inlaid marble floor as the dark-haired Elf moved into position. Nuada wanted to close his eyes, wanted to let his mind seek sanctuary in memories, but where would it go? Thoughts of his father, of Nuala, made his heart bleed as if from a wound. Thinking of Wink would only make him long for his friend and servant, long for the one who knew he had honor, knew he would never sully that honor with base acts of cruelty and evil. And he could not afford to long for anyone in this moment. He had to stand alone, or fall for all to see.

_ I wish I had heard that story,  _ he surprised himself by thinking. Already his body was bracing for the brutal crack of the whip.  _The one Dylan wanted to read to me. "Once Upon a Winter's Night." Father will not allow me to go back to her._ He thought of silver-washed blue eyes scanning pages yellowed with age, and the scarred mouth forming the words as she read aloud before the fire _. I wish I could have heard just one more tale._   _I wish I could've had just one more night of peace._

Then the whip came down across his back. Nuala screamed.

And the whip came down again.

Again.

And again...

**. **

_ Keep going. You must hurry. _

Dylan heard the voice of the Spirit, calm but earnest, in her ear as clearly as the clip-clop of the faerie stag's cloven hooves on the flagstone courtyard. The Hunter slid to a halt and dumped her unceremoniously on the hard, icy stones. The impact jarred her bones, and she barely saved her head from cracking on the hard ground. When the mortal tried to stagger to her feet, her bad knee buckled and she fell to the ground again. Frustration buzzed under her skin and the sick taste of fear clogged her throat as she struggled to push herself up. Darn it, she'd forgotten her cane! Didn't matter; she  _had_  to hurry! She  _had_ to get to Nuada!

She heard the clanking of metal and the shuffling of very large feet, and a familiar boar-like voice grunted, "Dylan!"

The human looked up and met the dark, shocked eyes of the silver troll that had been in Nuada's chambers the night she'd met the dark-haired Elf known as Eamonn. Some of the panic eased back a fraction. Finally getting to her feet, she rushed forward. "Mr. Wink! Thank goodness. Where's Nu– I mean, the prince? I have to find him! Where is he?"

"What are you doing here?" Wink grunted in the Troll tongue. Dylan, unversed, blinked and whispered, "Um... what?"  _Oh, crud,_ she thought _. Now would be a great time to randomly receive the gift of interpreting tongues._ But no such luck. She couldn't suppress the brief flash of disappointment.

Grumbling under his breath – if Nuada found the mortal here, the Elf prince would be furious – the troll gestured to the Hunter, who was moments away from bounding back out of the courtyard and returning to the Park. "Stag-man," he commanded. "I am the valet of Prince Nuada Silverlance, the Crown Prince of Bethmoora. In his name and for his sake, I demand you translate my words to this mortal, for the woodmen are gifted with the language of forest and mountain Fayre."

The faerie stag pranced toward them and bowed low, his nose scraping the flagstones. Then he was in the form of a leather-clad man with towering antlers once more. "As you wish, Troll."

Dylan had to step back when the burly troll swung back to her. The fury on his face couldn't entirely mask his concern, but he still presented a frightening visage. His concern was strong enough, however, to nearly overpower her natural caution. "What are you doing here, woman?" Wink demanded.

When the stag had translated the gruff words, she replied, "I know about the prince's trial. A brownie told me. Those charges are absolutely ridiculous. He needs an advocate, someone who can stand up for him. I can do that."

"Do not be ridiculous, yourself. Coming before King Balor without summons is a death sentence. They will draw and quarter you, and that is if you're lucky. Besides, you are nothing but a human – what do you expect to accomplish?"

Dylan paled at the thought of being ripped apart limb from limb by four wild horses. Her gorge rose, but she forced it back down with sheer determination.  _Think of Esther_ , she thought.  _Esther didn't let the fear of death keep her from doing what's right. Neither did Mordecai, or Rack, Shack, and Benny. I can do this. I_  have  _to do this – I owe him my_  life.

_ But Eamonn...  _ She trailed off as a sudden urge to be sick grabbed hold of her.  _Heavenly Father, Eamonn is here! He's here, I can't, he's going to... I can't do this, I can't. Help me, God, please._   _I can't do this._

Wink was saying something to her, but he was rumbling and grumbling so quickly the Hunter hadn't had a chance to translate yet. Suddenly the words to one of her favorite hymns played through her mind:  _The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, I will not, I cannot, desert to his foes; That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, I'll never, no never, I'll never, no never, I'll never, no never, no never forsake._  And she remembered something John had told her once, as well.  _Superman isn't brave. He's indestructible. Batman's the brave one, because there's no guarantee he'll make it._

_ Okay,  _ Dylan thought - to herself, to a Higher Power, she didn't know.  _Okay. I can do this. I can_  do  _this._ Aloud, she said, "At least someone will be there for him." She felt a moment of half-hysterical amusement when Wink's bristly troll eyebrows rose up nearly to the top of his forehead and he stared at her as if she were mad. "Everyone deserves an advocate. I was told he won't defend himself. If  _he_ won't,  _I_  will. I owe him at least that much."

_ Hurry,  _ the voice insisted. Dylan fought against a grimace. Battled against the fear trying to throttle her. The Spirit was telling her to move it,  _now,_  but the troll was standing in her way. He was too large to push past, and even if she could have, she couldn't outrun him on her short human legs, especially with her bad knee. She could only reason with him. And all the while she stood there chattering away, time was passing and her urgency increased. She needed to go  _right now_.

"Nothing you say will help him. They'll think you beguiled, glamored. You should go home, human. It is dangerous for mortals to wander the paths of Elfland unattended."

Heat blossomed in her chest and threaded through her knee, easing some of the hurt.  _You must go_  now.

"I'm not unattended," she replied airily, and stepped around him, heart in her mouth and her belly doing back-flips. " _You're_ with me." Dropping into a more serious tone, she added, "And I will  _never_  just go home and abandon him. Let's go."

"You'll only make things worse for him!" Wink cried, but the stag didn't bother to translate. The mortal was obviously beyond listening. If she hadn't been so infuriatingly stubborn, the troll might have admired her for her persistence in trying to save his prince.  _They're both mule-headed as dwarves_ , he thought, growling to himself and following after the woman.  _T'is a shame she's mortal; she's just like him._   _Although he is going to murder me for this._

_ You must run,  _ the Spirit insisted _. Hurry._

With a sigh, a spike in her blood pressure, and a mental,  _Yes, Sir,_ she started sprinting, ignoring the tiny darts of fiery pain shooting up her bad leg with every step. Wink shambled along beside her, haranguing her in the language of the silver cave trolls. With a watery, lopsided smile, she waved an apology and struggled onward.

**. **

Was that sweat or blood trickling down his face? Or maybe the phantom echoes of Nuala's tears? As fire burned through his back and straining shoulders, Nuada realized he could not tell. He'd bitten through his lip to keep from crying out after the hundredth stroke. Nuala was a sobbing heap in their father's arms at the top of the dais where the king's throne rested. Healers surrounded her and the king, who would not be parted from her. Balor had eyes only for the princess. It was as if the Elf tied to the whipping posts were no kin of the king's at all, much less his only son.

For a fleeting moment, the Elf prince wished his father would hold him the way he cradled Nuala, just one more time. How long had it been since his father had embraced him? More than two thousand years.

When was the last time his sister had held him that way? Since Nuala had clung to him over two millennia ago and wept, begging him not to go into exile. His father had refused to embrace him then. Refused to speak to him at all, not even to bid him farewell.

But no, he realized, barely noticing the way his body shuddered from another crack of the whip. Six hundred strokes had left his body numb with shock, unable to truly process the pain. No, someone else had embraced him just as fervently. Recently. Weeks ago. A warm arm around him and a tear-stained face pressed against his chest. Sobs against the silk of his tunic. Dark brown curls tickling his neck and chin. Joy and relief pouring out of the woman clinging so desperately to him as she trembled and wept into his chest.

_ Dylan,  _ he remembered _. Dylan embraced me then. So glad to see me. Always so glad to see me..._

Always so glad. Whenever he came to her door those fey-like blue eyes lit up with true happiness and she would smile at him in a way no one ever had, as if he had somehow made the stars shine brighter simply with his presence. She would smile whenever he spoke during their conversations about faith and faerie tales, loss and life. Even when she was obviously tired from her work, obviously worn or sorrowing, Dylan always had that quiet joy when he was with her. She  _always_  welcomed him. Only Dylan.

The seven-hundredth stroke would have driven him to his knees, but the chains at his wrists held him – barely – upright. Now he hung from iron chains that yanked his arms high over his head until he could scarcely breathe from the pressure on his chest and the pain in his back. He had seen a man crucified once, long ago, in the Middle East. More than two thousand years ago. Such a long time. As the iron shackles wrenched at his arms and shoulders, Nuada imagined the weight of that man's body dragging at his arms had felt much like this.

A whisper of cowardice urged him to confess, to tell what had been done to Dylan. If he told his father, the pain would stop. Nuala would not look at him as if he were a stranger. As if he were some sort of monster. She might even freely link with him once more, as they had as children. His father would embrace him again, weep for the agony inflicted on him. Would perhaps even look at him with pride and joy again, not despair and melancholic love. Eamonn would look like a fool for his accusations. Nuada's supporters would be dissatisfied, but even they would understand that the prince would only stand for so much towards humanity. He would still be in exile, but the agony would end. He would be allowed to hear  _Once Upon a Winter's Night_. He could have the haven that Dylan had tried to create for his people. Everything would be all right.

But he might shame one to whom he owed a debt. He would be surrendering to an enemy, playing Eamonn's vicious game. His father's opinion of him might actually plummet even further in the face of such a revelation. And he would lose the one thing he had left. He would lose his honor.

_ No,  _ he thought as his shoulders screamed from the strain and his blood flowed _. I will not sacrifice my honor thus._

_ Will you not, Silverlance?  _ Eamonn's voice hissed through his mind.  _Will you not? Such a hypocrite. Such a self-righteous, pious, martyred_  hypocrite!  _You have already eschewed your honor by bedding that filthy mortal whore._

Nuada's fists clenched around the iron chains. The metal seared his palms and fingers, but he welcomed this new pain. Welcomed the distraction and the way the metal shifted under his furious grip. How dare Eamonn speak to him of eschewing honor? Of whores and hypocrisy? The midnight-haired Elf would die for this. One day, not soon but one day, the dark Elf would die.

_ Tell me, Silverlance... what was she like, the little human slut? In bed, I mean. Oh,  _ and now Eamonn chuckled _. But why should I ask you? I can simply pay her a visit and find out for myself. In fact, I think that is exactly what I shall do._

The bleeding Elf's grip on the chains tightened until the metal cut his hands. The whip bit deep into his back. Black fury flooded beneath Nuada's skin as Eamonn shoved vile images of himself with Dylan into the prince's mind. Images of the helpless mortal weeping and struggling as Eamonn took his sick pleasure with her in the subway tunnels, in the king's hall, in Eamonn's sithen, in Dylan's idyllic little cottage at the edge of the park. In Nuada's sanctuary, in Nuada's own bed, atop the golden quilt his mother had made for him before her death. And always there was blood and pain, Dylan's tears and the stink of musk, a mortal's terrified and agonized screams.

_ Monster!  _ He raged while the phantom mirage of the human woman pleaded for Nuada to save her.  _A fháil amach óna! Get away from her! Touch her, touch any woman that way, and I will gut you like the cur you are! You're no better than a human! Feicfidh mé tú a mharú mé tá tú i dteagmháil lei!_

_ Oh, you'll kill me if I touch her, will you?  _ Mocking laughter raked at Nuada's belly.  _You can do nothing to me, Silverlance,_ Eamonn said coldly.  _I will enjoy your little plaything, as you have. Then, when I have tired of bedroom games, I will dispose of her and find a better toy._

And now there was another image: Eamonn spattered with Dylan's blood as he hurt her with blows and blades, and after he was finished, his hands tightened around her violet-bruised throat and she could not fight him. The sight of her pushing feebly at the murdering fae sent a lance through Nuada's heart. In the dark Elf's twisted fantasy, the mortal died underneath him, still weeping, still crying silently for Nuada to help her.

The prince thought of Dylan: those tense three months in the sanctuary as she struggled to recover and to aid him; being shocked at the way she'd recovered in the nearly four months since her attack, when he saw her at the summer faire; watching her slowly let go of the ghost of the trauma and the vicious fear in the short months that she'd read him her favorite tales. He thought of his mother, dead from the vile pleasure of mortal men. And when a single tear, a tear of sickness and shame – he owed her a debt! He was supposed to protect her from harm! Protect her from Eamonn! He  _owed_ her! – a sparkling, diamond-sharp tear of impotent fury and agony from the whip dropped from golden lashes to roll down Nuada's cheek and mix with his sweat, Eamonn laughed.

_ Weep for your whore, Highness. I will take her, use her, and kill her, because you sullied your supposedly-spotless honor with her. She will die cursing your name. Think on that as I flay the flesh from your bones, Silverlance. Beidh mé ag a ghearradh amach do chroí thar. _

The words, spat in the Old Tongue, were like a knife in the chest.  _I will tear out your very heart._ Eamonn thought he  _loved_  Dylan. He would rape her again and again and torture her in every possible way until she died of it... because he thought Nuada loved her.

The thought of an Elf bedding a human would have been enough to sicken the prince, but to see any Elf, any faery other than an ogre or goblin or other such nightmare-bogle committing rape... beneath everything, under the rage and the disgust, Nuada grieved for the infection humans had spread into his people. The sickness and evil. And he grieved for the pure evil in Eamonn's soul that drove him to attempt to destroy someone merely because the dark Elf thought they were loved by his enemies.

Eight hundred strokes brought the haze of oblivion to him, but it was no reprieve. Even in those brief moment of half-unconsciousness as he hovered near fainting from the pain and shock, he saw Eamonn with his hand tangled cruelly in Dylan's dark curls, the back of his other hand striking that fragile human face. The black bruises against her pale, scarred skin struck Nuada's heart like blows.

And there was more, always more to Eamonn's cruelty. He proved then that he was not ignorant in the ways of sadism and torture. Wooden leg presses to crush delicate human bones; a scold's bridle, that hideous human device of pain that ruined a woman's mouth with iron spikes and forced her to choke on her own blood and screams; the dark Elf even resorted to pressing bare mortal flesh against shards of amber-hot glass and red-hot metal. There was no end to what Eamonn could think to do to Dylan; no end to the pain and torment he had in mind. Nuada could hear the mortal's wrenching sobs; tasted the desperation of her tears on his tongue. Or was that his own tears he tasted on his lips?

No. Blood and sweat, but no tears. He would not cry for Eamonn. That single tear had been for his mother, for the reminder of what she had endured before her death. He would shed no others.

But when the glassy fog of shock faded from him, nine hundred lashes from the iron spike of the whip brought the tears of pure pain streaming unwillingly down his cheeks as blood dripped from his bitten lip. Nuala no longer screamed. Elven healers surrounded her, pouring their magic into her body not to heal, but to prevent as much of the damage from inflicting on her as possible. When had that happened? When Balor realized Nuala could not last against the lash?

But because of the iron whipping posts, the iron chains, the iron spike of the whip, Nuada would not be healed by his connection to his twin. Once he was unchained, perhaps then. But not before. His blood would continue to run.

A thousand strokes and he was limp in his chains, barely conscious, head lolling. Blood from his bitten lip mingled with the sweat and tears. His back was a sheet of dark golden blood ribbed by white bone. Everything hazed before his glassy eyes and all he could think was,  _I might have been wrong, Wink. They might just kill me for this. Eamonn just might manage it._ And then Eamonn would... then Dylan...

_ \- Broken bones and blood _ __  
_A woman's terrified screaming_  
_The thud of blows against bruising flesh_  
_Mother? No, Mother!_  
_Someone else sobbing, calling his name_  
_Nuala? Dylan? Who..._  
_No one would come, no one would end it_  
_Hollow snap of breaking bone_  
_Muffled screams_  
_And then nothing_  
_His mother dead; Nuala! Dylan!_  
__Empty silence, echoing in his skull-

A colossal boom reverberated through the Hall, shattering the flashback. People gasped and cried out in surprise. The prince tried to turn his head. Could not. Everything hurt. Could it not simply end now? If nothing else, let him die with his honor intact. Let there be no more pain.

"Nuada!"

That voice... so familiar. Special. Why so special? Not Wink's voice. Not Nuala's. Mortal. A mortal voice. A woman. Was it... Dylan? No, not Dylan. She could not be here. Could not get here. Did not know of this bloody and heartbreaking night. She was home, safe. Far away from Eamonn. Far from his perverse, too-human lust for blood and women's flesh. Far away. Where she should be. Bethmoora was no place for a defenseless human woman.

" _No! Nuada!"_

And then large, strong, familiar hands were lifting him, holding him upright, careful of his ruined back and shoulders, uncaring of the blood soaking his trousers and hair. Something wet and cool dripped onto his upturned face, washing away some of the blood. When he blinked, managed to focus, he realized he recognized the woman looking down at him with terrified and heartbroken eyes. Recognized as silver-washed blue eyes like an autumn lake shed tears of grief over him. Tears that should have been shed by his father and sister. Mortal tears.

He could not speak as her tears washed the blood from his skin. Could not tell her that the touch of her trembling hand against his cheek was like cool soothing snow against the fiery pain burning through his wounds. He could not even whisper,  _Do not cry. Please, do not cry._  But he could hear the way her voice shook and nearly broke when she whispered his name, pleading, "I'm sorry. I came as fast as I could. I'm sorry, Nuada, I'm so sorry. Nuada, please don't die. Please be okay. Please."

Mortal. Human. Rescuer. One whom he owed. One who tried to be more than she ever could for his people. The one Eamonn wanted, because he believed her to be Nuada's lover. But he would never let the dark Elf hurt her. Not that way.  _Never._ He would protect her from the vile, silver-eyed Elf if it cost him his life. His honor demanded he protect her.

_ Dylan. _

**. **

She'd nearly been too late, she thought again as she struggled with the heavy iron chains shackling the prince's wrists. As she fumbled at them, she snarled at the white-skinned man crowned by a rack of antlers and wearing a golden torc, "How  _dare_ you! He didn't do any of those horrible things you said. How could you  _do_ this to him? If you've killed him, you'll pay. I swear you will. You monster, let him go! Unchain him  _now!"_

The Butcher Guards – who'd been knocked aside by an irate stag-man who'd been strong-armed into helping an even more irate troll – surged forward, but the pale, golden-eyed man on the dais held up both hands. The hooded warriors stilled, intrigued to hear what their king would say.

"Who are you?" The pale man demanded. "How did you come here? Wink, what is the meaning of this?"

"She is the poor, beguiled human Nuada has been manipulating, Your Majesty," an icy voice, dripping with false compassion, explained. Dylan froze, anger and terror thrumming through her. She turned her head very slowly to see Eamonn holding the whip wet with Nuada's blood. Eamonn's white tunic was speckled with dark gold – the blood of a Bethmoora Elf. "His influence over her has forced her to come here to save him despite how he abuses her. If it were not so," Eamonn added, and his eerie cat's eyes fixed on Dylan's face, "she would have to be put to death for entering the King's hall without Your Majesty's summons. But mercifully, she is under the prince's vile spell."

_ I'm not stupid,  _ she thought, meeting his gaze unflinchingly _._  Her panic screamed at her like a fire-alarm, but she focused on the Elf bearing down on her with his gaze, and the other Elf in Wink's arms.  _If I tell the truth, I'll be killed. That explains why I wasn't invited, and why Wink was out there_   _instead of in here._ The mortal woman glanced at the troll, who only had an eye for his liege lord.

Nuada was barely conscious. His back was a sheet of dark golden blood, and blood pooled at his feet. Smears of gold so dark it almost looked red marred the white skin of his arms, streaking downward from the glittering shackles around his wrists. Dylan had the feeling that if they didn't free him soon, things were going to get very bad for the Elf prince.  _But first, to clear up a little misunderstanding._

_ They will kill you,  _ a voice hissed in her mind. Her eyes widened and she stared at Eamonn. His silver gaze bore into hers like a spike _. If you speak the truth to them, they will most certainly kill you slowly, horribly, and painfully, you stupid human tart. And if they do not,_  I will.  _I will shatter every bone in your-_

_ Ever read the Book of Esther?  _ She thought back at him. She would not show him her fear. Would not show him how much she wanted to run and hide and never come out again. He blinked, and she fought the bleak, vicious smile tingling behind her lips _. Go kiss a pig, fairy boy._

"I am not beguiled or under glamor. I can't  _be_ glamored," she added, shooting a look of pure loathing at the dark Elf. "I was licked by a fear-darrig when I was nineteen." Tilting her head back, she indicated a spot under her chin – a tiny, silvery circle, like a scar, where her Adam's apple would be. "Prince Nuada's not my lover, either. I am a child and servant of the Star Kindler, a follower of the High King of the World.  _Someone_ here ought to know what that means. Now get him out of these stupid chains and fix him before he goes into shock and dies!"

"The sentence has been given," a tall, box-headed faerie with strange eyes and long fingers protested. Dylan fought against the urge to dislike him on sight. She didn't know him, and besides, the Lord expected her to love everyone, since He did. Even people who argued with her. That didn't mean she didn't want to punch the guy in the face. "He must receive the other thousand lashes."

"Which one of you guys is King Balor?" Dylan demanded. "I'm assuming it's you." She nodded to the pale man on the dais. "Since you're the king, you can retract the sentence and pardon His Highness. Especially since the charges laid against him are false."

"They are  _not_!" Eamonn shouted. "Do you deny that the prince killed several humans in the subway tunnels a little more than eleven moons ago? You were there, were you not?"

_ Crud _ , Dylan thought. Aloud, all she said was, "I was there and yes, he did, but–"

"Did he not claim it was in your defense?" The gray-eyed Elf continued over the mortal woman's protests. "That he supposedly killed these humans to protect you from their attack? Is that not what he told you?"

"No, that's what he  _did_. Any idiot standing there could've–"

"You see, Your Majesty! If not beguiled by glamor, than her simple human brain merely cannot conceive that a beautiful creature like one of our kind could possess such deceit and evil as to lie to her. The crown prince would never rescue a human unless he had a more dire purpose in mind for her. He used this poor mortal's situation as an excuse to butcher other helpless humans–"

"They were  _not_ helpless; they had  _guns!"_

"And then forced himself on her in deception using his power and beauty, stealing her virtue and honor–"

"Ex _cuse_ me?" She looked at Wink, wondering if she were the only one in the room to catch the foul stench of the dark-haired Elf's mendacity. Steal her virtue and honor? Was he still trying to say Nuada had raped her? Or tricked her into sleeping with him, anyway? Didn't these idiots remember what it meant when a human said they followed the Star Kindler? It had probably been a long time since they'd dealt with a Latter-Day Saint, but still! The Fair Ones were supposed to have long memories! "I follow the Star Kindler! I don't sleep around with people!"

"But he is not 'people,' but the crown prince of Bethmoora, possessing the perfection of form of the Royal House–"

"Oh, good  _grief!_ " For the first time, Dylan wondered if they were going to lose not because of Eamonn, but because of the stupidity of the Fayre who were nodding in agreement to the garbage he spewed.

"And he did all this with plans to further abuse her, and eventually to kill her, all because of her human blood–"

"Is that why you killed the woodman and his wife?" Dylan shouted over Eamonn's loud voice. The dark Elf fell silent. The venom in his quicksilver gaze had the mortal woman stepping closer to Wink, pulse racing, fear screaming through her veins. The stag-man they had come into the hall with them stepped between Dylan and Eamonn, velvet-furred head lowering so the lethal tips of his antlers pointed at the gray-eyed Elf. "Because you wanted to 'expose' Prince Nuada as a bad guy?"

Eamonn took a step toward her. She must have made some sound because Nuada stirred in Wink's arms. The faerie stag spread his four powerful legs and snorted contemptuously at the infuriated Elf.

"I would not say such things if I were you, human," Eamonn growled.

"It's true, though." The mortal turned to the King of Elphame. "Your Majesty, Prince Nuada saved my life. The men he killed were..." A shudder raced up her spine, and for a moment she couldn't seem to force herself to go on. There was the phantom pain of something tearing inside, the burn of fluorescents against her eyes, and she nearly screamed.  _Help me!_  Then she thought of the Elf prince lying in a fog of pain in Wink's arms, thought of mercurial golden eyes that shifted with the Elf's mood. She squared her shoulders. "Those men were rapists and murderers, criminals and nothing more." The court gasped, but Dylan went on. "Nuada didn't torture them or play with them. He dispatched them as quickly as possible, then got me to safety. He allowed me to stay in his healing sanctuary until I had completely recovered. Then, when it was time to leave, he escorted me to the nearest mortal hospital."

"Majesty, if she was completely recovered, why take her to a mortal hospital?" Eamonn demanded. Dylan began to open her mouth, and the Elf shouted, "Because she is  _lying_ , Sire! Or because the prince hurt her, and she is covering for him out of some sense that she owes him, a twisted idea the crown prince has obviously planted in her feeble human mind–"

"Will you  _shut_ ** _up_**  and let me  _talk_?" Dylan shouted, incensed and terrified. She was barely glancing at Eamonn now, but at Nuada, his silvery horsetail dripping the blood that had soaked into it onto the floor. Stunned, Eamonn's mouth actually snapped shut. "Cheese and crackers, I can't say the sky is blue without you screaming Elvish conspiracy. Shut  _up_ already. Look," she added to the king. Her voice took on a pleading note. "Your Majesty, can't we settle this after we unchain Nuada?  _Please._ If I'm wrong, or I'm lying, or whatever Eamonn pulls out of his hat next, then..." She trailed off, then whitened as a thought – an awful, terrible, horrifying thought, one that just might convince them – popped into her head. "If what I say isn't true, then I will take the rest of Prince Nuada's punishment."

Eyes like blood-tinged molten bronze snapped open.

"N-no!" Weakened by blood loss, hoarse from holding in his cries of pain, Nuada's voice still rang with authority. "No... Father.  _Please_. Ten hundred lashes... a hundred lashes... would kill..."

"You shut up, too," the human woman snapped, but the look on her heavily scarred face as she gazed on the Elf prince arrested Balor's attention: desperation, horror, worry, fear, and all the protective instincts of a mother lioness.

And as for the prince... there was a fierce, almost desperate stubbornness in the sharp feral features as he struggled to get out of Wink's hold, to attain his feet.

"And don't you  _dare_  try to stand up! You're dying," Dylan added, folding her arms beneath her breasts. "You're not the only one allowed to save people. Besides, if he wants to, the One-Armed King could have me executed for popping in here uninvited anyway. So, you've heard my offer, Your Majesty. What do you say?"

" _No,_  Father-"

"Be  _quiet!_ Or I'll dump you on your butt in front of everybody. Wink will probably help me, too! Now shush!"

King Balor stared at the scarred woman who spoke the Old Tongue so fluently and met his gaze levelly, never flinching from the alien eyes of antique gold. He would have sworn she was completely unafraid. This mortal would risk her life... to save his son? His son, the Elf who despised humans and would see them all slaughtered in their beds? Why? And yet, Nuada had just pleaded for the punishment to be given to him and not the human, for fear it would kill her. What had happened between his son and this woman? What if... what if she was, in fact, his lover? Was it possible Nuada was  _in_   _love_  with the human?

Nuada stared at the human who stood so brazenly before his father, offering her life – yet again – for his. He had thought himself beyond surprise when it came to Dylan, but she had managed to shock him one more time. Somehow she had found out about the so-called trial –  _one of the Wee Folk must have told her_ , he thought – and made her way here, risking her life to come before the king to plead for him.

And now she offered her life once again, merely so that he might be unchained. She would risk coming before Eamonn, as well – surely she had known that, after their last encounter with the dark Elf. The prince remembered her terror at the thought of the human wolves returning, and marveled that a creature who possessed no understanding of courage could yet be so brave. Or perhaps foolhardy? For the mortal had come to the so-called trial anyway.

If his head had not been swimming and his body screaming in agony, he might have grabbed her by those narrow shoulders and shaken some sense into her. But in Eamonn's presence he could not afford to waste his strength. Not after the sick tortures he had seen in the dark-Elf's mind.

Eamonn seethed, his blood-speckled, white-gloved hand still holding the iron-spiked whip. Dylan watched him from the corner of her eye, in case he got any ideas, but she kept her main focus on the king who would decide if she lived or died – and if Nuada lived or died.

_ Please, Heavenly Father,  _ she prayed. There was a sick, acrid taste on the back of her tongue - fear, or the rising urge to throw up?  _Please don't let this all have been for nothing._

"Unchain him," a softer, sweeter voice commanded. A woman nearly identical to Nuada, though lacking the darkness to lips and eyes and with softer features and a slight kiss of healthy peach to her flesh, glided forward, only slightly hampered by the tall green-shrouded Elf helping her to stay upright. "I will test the truth of her words, Father."

_ She said "Father,"  _ Dylan thought.  _So_  this  _is Nuala._ Nuada had mentioned his twin once or twice, but the entire time she'd stayed in his sanctuary he'd kept the painting of her veiled. The human woman had only glimpsed it a couple of times when Nuada had gazed up at it with some deep and tortured emotion etched across his face, thinking the mortal asleep.

_ I don't like her,  _ she realized, blinking once in surprise as the Elf princess swanned down the steps of the dais toward her. A clanking sound told her they'd unchained the battered and bleeding Elf prince from the whipping posts, but Dylan didn't look away from the approaching princess. She and Nuala watched each other with measuring eyes that missed nothing.  _I don't like her because she stood there while they whipped the flesh from Nuada's back and she didn't try to help him. Did she even speak for him at the trial? Brighid said Nuada had said she wouldn't. That no one would, not even his father. What kind of king_ does  _that to his only son?_

Then she remembered the story of Absolem, from the Old Testament. She couldn't remember whose son he had been specifically, but he'd been the rebellious son of a king of Israel, a son who had tried to take his father's throne and started a civil war in the process. The king's armies had fought against his, and defeated them. Absolem had been killed in the battle. But instead of rejoicing over his victory against an usurper, upon hearing the news the Israelite king had wept and lamented, "O, Absolem, my son. My son, Absolem. Absolem."

Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she would not let them fall. She'd cried enough on the way to Bethmoora.  _All right. Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. I'm sorry, Heavenly Father,_ she prayed silently.  _I will do my best to give them both a chance. I'm very... fond of Nuada, but that is no excuse. I will try to be less judgmental if You bless me thus. And,_ she added as Nuala stopped in front of her, pale yellow eyes piercing,  _if You'll bless me that she won't rip my brain into itty bitty pieces, please._

"Give me your hand." The princess's voice had a strained quality to it, as if she had been screaming recently. Dylan obeyed, placing her palm against the Elf woman's outstretched one. She thought she heard Nuada make a sound. Such a sad, sad sound. But he couldn't have. He'd never shown that kind of emotion in front of her before. Injured and half-dead or not, Dylan doubted he was about to start doing it now, either.

"They raped you," Nuala whispered, her voice soft with horror. Dylan jerked, echoes and memories burning her thoughts, but didn't draw her hand back. Couldn't. Because Nuada needed her to do this. King Balor could hear his daughter's words. The mortal was pretty sure all the Gentry in the Hall, with their preternatural senses, could hear. "Over and over again. Pain. Blood. Fear. So much violence. They cut your face. Struck your flesh and tried to break your bones. Ripped you apart with blades of flesh and steel. You thought you would die. You  _prayed_  you would die, if only it would end and there would be no more pain. Then... a savior. A silver angel like an avenging star. The white beast of a faery tale."

Nuala fought back the tears clinging to her long golden lashes. Shame and misery were like acid in her belly.  _This_ was why Nuada had saved the mortal – to spare her the atrocities committed upon their mother. Even with humans, her brother shunned rape. Slaughter, he embraced. Violence and butchery and vicious cruelty were as nothing to him in the face of his hatred for the children of Adam. But never, ever rape. The very thought of it hurt him like a soul-wound. She, his twin, the other half of his soul, should have known that.

And then...

"So much pain in both of you. Such terrible wounds. You are a doctor. A healer of mind and soul, of the heart. You know medicine. You helped each other because both would die otherwise. He took you to his sanctuary. You doctored his wounds. Fought the metal sicknesses and the poison in his body with leaf and herb. He owed you a debt. A debt of honor. That is why..."

But  _why_ , Nuala thought bitterly, why hadn't her brother  _said_  anything? Explained?

_ He thought you wouldn't have believed him,  _ Dylan said softly.  _Because you wouldn't have._

Nuala's eyes widened.  _You speak to me with your thoughts?_

_ Well, you _  are  _kind of reading them, Your Highness,_ the mortal replied, and showed her the conversation with Brighid and Becan. Showed Nuala that her twin brother knew her as well as, if not better, than she knew herself. Made certain, without malice or rancor, that Nuala knew she had been very,  _very_ wrong to doubt the crown prince's sense of honor and justice _. I know no mortal as honorable as Prince Nuada. Except the Prophet and the Son of the High King, but I don't actually_ know  _the Prophet, just_ of  _him. And the Son of the High King is not mortal._

_ You don't understand,  _ Nuala protested _. He hates humans. He wants your people dead._

_ No,  _ Dylan replied gently but firmly _. He wants your people_  free _, and humans being dead is the only way he can see it happening_   _right now. He hates us for what we have done, and maybe we deserve it. I know humans have done some pretty crummy stuff. But he does not seek to kill us out of hate. He's desperate. He clings to his honor and tries to help a race who will not help itself. That's probably how God feels often enough, come to think of it. You all have accepted the end of your people. He hasn't. He_ won't _. He_   **can't** _. And neither will I._

In Nuala's mind flashed a thousand images and sensations – the burning pain of electricity coursing through a young body; delight as nixies and asrai frolicked in a moon-washed river; pulling filth and debris out of that same river time and time again, aided by a little boy with the same face and hair as the child-version of the woman whose mind Nuala now wandered; the burning cold, enchanted kiss of a grateful gancanagh under a golden Samhain moon, while his morgen sweetheart swam through the clean-again waters; nursing a kobold covered in burns from scalding water back to health, carefully spoon-feeding it grits drizzled with honey and sprinkled with cinnamon from a wooden bowl and spoon; poisonous chemical lies stinging as a needle pierces a child's vein and she screams that she does believe in faeries, she  _does..._

A final image, one that stole the very air from Nuala's lungs: her brother, seated in a comfortable brown leather armchair before a crackling fire, his boots on a low wooden stool and a black kitten in his lap. The creature purred contentedly as nimble Elven fingers scratched behind one ear. And across from him, the golden glow of the firelight illuminating her scarred face, sat the woman whose mind Nuala now scanned, reading aloud from a beautiful book bound in green leather with a silver shape stamped on the cover, with  _Spindle's End_ glittering on the spine in silver leaf.

_ How is this possible? He would never... he cannot... _

And now Nuada's mind in hers, his touch as light as a sylph balancing on the surface of a pond, mingling his memory with the woman's –  _Dylan_ , Nuala thought.  _Her name is Dylan_ – until she knew every detail of those nearly two moons' time of reading: apple slices drizzled with melted cheese on thick pieces of fresh bread; watching the human lay out fresh milk and bread or other victuals for the Wee Folk; the comforting and musty scent of old books; a sparkle to the air whenever the resident brownie went to work cleaning in the living room. Over it all was the warm, mellow hum of the mortal woman reading aloud by the stone fireplace.

_ Sanctuary,  _ Nuala realized. Nuada's thoughts instantly cried _, No, a barely pleasant obligation,_ but his twin sister felt the echo of affirmation beneath his denial. The crown prince of Bethmoora enjoyed the human woman's company. He felt... not secure. That was not the flavor of emotion the princess was getting from him. Not safe, but... welcome. He felt welcome in the lowly human cottage amidst the green _._  And  _he_  made the mortal feel safe. Ten, nearly eleven moons' in each others' lives and this was what had come of it.

_ He has given me a chance,  _ Dylan murmured as Nuada, exhausted and distracted by the burning in his body and the near-humiliation of a troll – of  _anyone_  – cradling him like an infant, withdrew from the bond.  _He gave me a chance, and he might learn to give that chance to others. You should not shun him as you do, Your Highness. He's lonely. He misses you. It hurts him._

There came into the Elf woman's mind an image of an underground sanctuary, Spartan at best. But she recognized the quilt in various shades of gold on the narrow bed and the portrait on the wall above the hearth. She knew it was her portrait, though heavy velvet curtains covered the painting. Knew it, because in this memory Nuada stared up at it with such longing and loneliness etched like grief across his face.

_ You do not understand,  _ Nuala replied.  _You are only human. His love for me is... dangerous._   _Most fae love dangerously, especially royals. He is in love with... someone he should not be. That love is dangerous as well._

_ It's obsessive, you mean.  _ There was sorrow and sympathy in the words. Understanding. But oddly, no anger or disgust or any of the other emotions Nuala expected from a human discussing a love that, with only a little more provocation, could border on madness.  _I'm a psychiatrist. I have experience with obsessive love. When the mind is whole, such a thing only comes when all other affection is redacted. And believe me, the prince is quite sane. I simply think... I think he is tired of fighting himself, and the rest of the world. So out of exhaustion and loneliness and grief, he chooses not to fight himself and what those emotions bring out in him anymore. Give him time._

_ I have given him more than two _   _thousand years. I can no longer bear to wander his thoughts. They are full of violence, hate, death. Recently it has been less, but it still poisons him. I cannot..._

_ When the two of you came to this world from before mortality,  _ Dylan said,  _you didn't come to be brother and sister for a thousand years, or even two thousand. You came to be brother and sister until the end of everything. The end hasn't happened yet, Your Highness. It's not going to be here for a very, very long time. Don't give up on him. Everyone has trials they must face, some until death. He is one of yours, and you are one of his. It will work out eventually._

Nuala pulled away from the somewhat disturbing mental contact and dropped her hand, which ached fiercely. How long had she been in the woman's mind? Everything hurt from the phantom flogging she'd received, and the healing had taken more out of her yet. She was dizzy and her fingers were numb when she came to herself and saw the entire court staring at her and the human. Everyone, in fact, but the human herself, Nuada, and the troll who held him. The troll and the mortal had eyes only for the prince now. And the prince was deathly pale and unconscious.

That woman... Nuala had never touched a mind like hers. Serene, yet determined. Kind, yet not naïve. A mind that should have been chained 'round by the bleak, hopeless fear that came in the aftermath of rape – and the fear  _was_  there. It was, but nowhere near as sharp as Nuala had expected. And wherever the princess found the fear, there was always memories of Nuada to push it back. Memories of  _Nuada,_  who should have terrified the mortal.

This human struggled to always speak and think kindly of those around her, struggled desperately to be humble, yet strove to convince herself she was capable of the things which the Star Kindler had called her to do. And she was deeply devoted to her Christian God, and to obeying the two greatest commandments He had ever supposedly given to humans: to love her God with all of her heart, might, and mind, and to love everyone else the way she believed her God loved them – totally and unconditionally.

"She..." Nuala croaked. Choked on her shame. The wet-eyed Elf princess cleared her throat and tried again. "The human speaks the truth. Eamonn is a liar and a murderer, Father!"

Dylan realized something was wrong the moment Eamonn grinned, his smile like a knife in the dark. The Elf's bright grin widened when understanding filled Dylan's mind and she opened her mouth to shout a warning. Before she could get the words out, he lifted the whip and yelled _, "Attack!"_

Dylan jerked her head around to see what had to be at least a hundred black-haired, silver-eyed Elves draw blades and follow the vicious Elf's order. As the hooded Butcher Guards lunged into battle, the mortal turned away from the fight and focused on Nuada and Wink. "We need to go," she said tersely to the looming troll. "He is in absolutely no shape to fight!"

"Come with me," Nuala commanded, and grabbing Dylan by the arm, hauled her toward the dais and her father, who was drawing a fabulously gargantuan sword that the human dimly recognized as a claymore. Nuala led the human and the troll behind the dais to a small, inconspicuous door set far back along the wall. She pulled her sleeve back and waved one hand. The golden bracelet on her wrist glowed and the etchings on the metal twisted sinuously. The door clicked open and Nuala pulled Dylan through. Wink kicked it shut after he'd wiggled through as well, careful not to jostle the injured prince.

Nuada stirred, and Dylan paused to glance at him. Color – if one could call that moony, amber-tinged whiteness a color – was slowly returning to his face. Even as she watched, the flesh began to regrow along the Elven warrior's shoulders and back.

_ Any minute now,  _ she thought a little frantically. She wanted to touch the prince, reassure herself that he was actually breathing, but was afraid of hurting him.  _Any minute, he's going to pop up and start kicking butt. I'm okay. We're okay. Everything's okay._

" _Come,"_ the princess hissed. She drew a slim Elvish sword and continued down the long corridor. "You will wait in my chambers until he is conscious. Let him decide then what to do." They hurried down a series of twisting hallways until they came to a rowan-wood door etched with silver Elvish script. Nuala used her bracelet again to bring down the wards around the door, flung it open, and shoved Dylan inside. Turning to Wink, she ordered, "No matter what malice you bear against me for this night, protect them both with your life. I know you would do it for my brother, but do it for the human as well. She is very special, that one. Her soul is like unto us, though she is so very human. In her my brother has found some solace. Guard her well."

Wink didn't reply. This so-called princess did not understand the concept of loyalty, of love, of service. Let her give her orders. He would guard his prince with his last drop of blood, and the human girl too, for what she had done to save Nuada.

The troll went into the chamber and shut the door in the princess's face. He heard his prince's sister hurry off down the hallway again, back toward the fight. Wink looked at Dylan, who understood the silent admittance that she was now in charge.

"Lay him on the bed," the human ordered in a voice that barely quavered. "On his stomach, please." Wink complied, impressed that the mortal had yet to fall to pieces. But then, if she were one to panic, she wouldn't have been able to heal the prince's wounds that long ago winter night. Dylan scanned the damage to the Elf, still horrific even with the healing that had already taken place. "How is he healing so fast when the whip was tipped with iron?"

She'd seen the thing: a horrible, metal spike glinting a sickening crimson-tinged gold with the Elf blood on its vicious tips. It actually reminded her of the spear hanging above Nuala's bed – a long, golden-wood shaft tipped with a wicked-sharp point that looked like iron... but it couldn't be. Could it? She shook her head and told herself not to be stupid. Of course it wasn't iron. Iron killed faeries.

_ But the Spear of Light was made of iron, _  she remembered suddenly.  _Iron from the heart of a star, forged by the Tuatha dé called Brighid and_ –

Wink made wiggling motions with his fingers and clapped his hands, jolting her from her thoughts. Then the troll pointed at the door and made a crude female shape in the air. The human had to think for a minute before remembering what she'd asked him.

"Nuala... was healed by magic?" Dylan hazarded. The troll nodded and pointed at Nuada, miming ripping off the iron shackles. "And because Nuada isn't chained by iron, the healing is affecting him too?" He nodded. "Because they're twins?" Another nod. "Huh. Good to know. Ugh," she grumbled, focusing once more on the brutal damage in front of her. Strangely, it helped to combat the fear that was a living, breathing, choking thing inside her. "I don't have my medicine bag. There's nothing I can do for him except..." The mortal trailed off and glanced at Wink. "Go... guard the door or something, please. I can't have you looking at me while I'm doing this – it's weird." The troll cocked his head and Dylan sighed. "I'm going to pray." Her throat tight and her hands shaking, she added, "It's all I can do."

Puzzled, the troll shrugged and thumped over to the door. Let the human pray, then. She was a follower of the High King of the World. Strange that humans believed in the Highest of the gods, but didn't believe in the lesser ones. Perhaps because the lesser gods were more like very powerful faeries than gods, and humans needed powerful deities to protect them. Or the humans had simply forgotten. Or there was another reason. Many humans did not believe in the Star Kindler, either, come to think of it. Not truly. But Dylan claimed to be His servant and child, so obviously  _she_  did.

The human knelt with some difficulty at the foot of the bed. It was almost as if she could feel every trickle of blood oozing down Nuada's ribs and soaking the velvet coverlet on the princess's bed. She shuddered and shoved the thought from her mind. When she couldn't concentrate and she needed to pray, she tried to remember the first twenty or so seconds from a hymn – purely the instrumental part. If she thought about the words, the song would get stuck in her head until Doom's Day. Now she heard the beautiful, haunting strains of "Be Still, My Soul." Immediately her shoulders relaxed and most of the tension drained out of her. She bowed her head.

"Heavenly Father," she whispered softly.

She knew Wink could probably hear her, which made her uncomfortable since this was a private prayer and you weren't supposed to make those public. But she also knew that Nuada needed to hear a voice speaking, to help him wake up, and Wink couldn't be the speaker since he had to stand by the door and make sure nothing got in and tried to kill them. The odds of anything even finding them were slim, but Dylan felt loads better with the troll standing guard.

"Heavenly Father," she repeated. "Help me. I know I'm supposed to tell Thee what I'm grateful for first and thank Thee for my blessings – like, I'm grateful we got there in time and I'm grateful we're not dead – but I'm really, really scared right now. I'm scared for Nuada. He's hurt so badly. He's healing, but I..." Panic and dread made her voice break. Her fingers tightened on her arms until it hurt as she fought to keep back the sob clawing at her chest. "And Eamonn," Dylan murmured when her voice no longer quaked, "is launching a full-scale assault out there in the Throne Room or whatever that place was. Please don't let anyone die if it's possible. If not, please don't let their deaths be horrendously painful. Let them be quick.

"And please let Nuada wake up soon. I always feel better when he's nearby. He's very strong and very brave, and he's a skilled warrior. Please protect him if he goes into the battle. And please protect Wink. I like him and I don't want him hurt, either, if it's possible. Please protect Princess Nuala and King Balor as well. I know Nuada loves them and his heart would be broken if anything happened to them. And..."

She steeled herself to ask what she knew she must. "Please, if there's a way to end this without Eamonn being hurt, I hope it happens. If not... please let it be quick. He is my enemy," and oh, was he her enemy. She remembered the sight of Nuada, bleeding and barely conscious, chained by iron, and had to swallow the salt of grief and unshed tears before she could go on. "He is my enemy," she repeated through clenched teeth. Anger pulsed through her almost like pain. "But what I want is not the point. The Lord said to pray for our enemies. So I ask for Thee to have mercy on Eamonn.

"And please, please help Nuada to wake up soon." Now her eyes stung and her throat ached from holding back tears. Dylan had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling. "I just want him to tell me he's all right. And I say this in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen."

"I am all right," a hoarse voice croaked, and Dylan's eyes shot open. They locked with eyes the color of weak lemonade. Her heart leapt. She drew a ragged breath and failed to fight the sting of tears.

"Nuada?" She glanced at Wink, who had turned to watch the prince. "He's awake!" She turned back to the Elf warrior. His harsh, pained breath ruffled tiny mounds of velvet coverlet in front of his shockingly white face. "How much pain are you in, Your Highness?" She asked, trying to pull on her professionalism like armor. Despite herself, her hand shook as she laid the back of it against the Elf's clammy skin. Still slightly in shock. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst."

He arched one knife-thin eyebrow. "Fifty." Why was she touching him? Why were there tears rolling down her cheeks? He'd heard her praying for him – praying! – and was unsure how the whispered words made him feel. She had pleaded with her God to protect him and Wink, and his sister and father. But she had also prayed for the High King of the World to show mercy to Eamonn. Compassion? Or stupidity?

_ Mercy or idiocy? Bravery or foolishness? How is this even a question, when she is human? _  He wondered.  _She should not understand mercy or bravery._ Yet everything she did spoke otherwise.

"Fifty? Ouch," she mumbled. "Increasing, decreasing, or staying the same?"

"Decreasing," the prince mumbled, and shifted onto his elbows. His breath hissed through gritted teeth. "Increasing. Much." He allowed himself to fall back to the bed. "I must wait a bit longer to rise. You..." Those pale eyes darkened almost to bronze. "You should not be here, human. How dare you come here? Why did you come?"

"To save your lily-white arse," Wink grunted in Troll, but Dylan didn't understand that.

"You shouldn't have come here alone, Your Highness," she said.

" _You_  should not have come here  _at all_."

"You may be a prince," she said, sitting back. Why couldn't she keep the stupid grin off her face? And her tears wouldn't stop either, no matter how many times she swiped at them with the back of her hand. Why was she so happy the stubborn jerk was awake, anyway? Especially since the first thing he did upon waking was complain, and the second thing was verbally abuse her. "But  _you_  are not the boss of me. When the Lord commands, I obey, remember?"

"Your Christian God told you to crash a private engagement?" When she just looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, he sighed. "It is dangerous for you here, human. You should not have come... but... it was well meant." And that, Dylan knew, was as close as the Elf prince was ever going to get to telling her "thank you" for rescuing him. She wondered absently if the words were even in his vocabulary. He never said "please," either, come to think of it.

"I know it's dangerous," she informed him, getting to her feet. As always after praying, the tips of her toes were numb. "Eamonn's currently attempting to stage a coup out there. Your father and sister are kicking his butt along with the Royal Guards, if said butt hasn't been kicked already."

" _What?"_  Nuada shoved himself upright and tried to slide off the bed. Dylan lunged for him and, after a moment's hesitation – where to grab without hurting him? – grabbed his scarred bicep to stop him from getting up. She nearly lost her grip when he flexed the muscles in his upper arm and prised her fingers apart. "Release me at once, mortal."

"Don't you  _dare_  pull this high and mighty stuff with me, Elf boy," she snarled.  _Out of one potentially lethal situation and into another one_ , she thought giddily. What if he decided honor could go hang and he stabbed her or something? Actually, stab her with  _what_? He was unarmed and half-dead. And even if he hadn't been, threat of death or dismemberment had never stopped her when it came to Nuada before. "Can you at least wait to get up until I can't see your ribs through your gore? It's kind of gross. Not to mention you're still weakened from the iron and lead sicknesses from before! And the poison! Your immune system is a little tired, still. Your Highness,  _please_!"

"There is no honor or valor in hiding in my sister's chambers while she and my aged father battle  _my_ enemies!"

Dylan wanted to put her hands on her hips, but they were busy hanging onto the Elf's biceps. "Ever heard the phrase 'discretion is the better part of valor?' Hmm? And Eamonn's  _my_ enemy, too." She thought of Aldonza, who'd said the same thing to Don Quixote, and ended up getting gang raped by those enemies after the half-mad, aging knight had defeated them. A frisson of fear slithered down her spine. "Wink!" She yelped at the troll. "Help me! Make him stop! Your Highness, you are too badly hurt to even  _think_  about fighting yet!"

"Do you intend to henpeck me like some shrewish dwarf wife?" Why was she so pale? Surely after stitching his gunshot wounds all those moons ago, the sight of his flayed back had not turned her into a coward? Yet she  _was_ a human – perhaps it had.

"Will you stop asking me that when I'm making you behave? What do you have against dwarf wives, anyway?" She demanded. He twitched out of her grip and managed to get to his feet, only to stagger and fall back onto the bed. The world swam around him and his vision went white for a moment. Blood roared in his ears. "Oh, okay! No, you don't." Dylan laid her hands gingerly on his shoulders, carefuly of the lashes, to keep him from trying to rise again. "You can't even walk, Nuada. Please! Stay still, just for a few minutes... the healing stopped." The mortal blinked, gaping as the healing lash marks began to unknit. Fresh blood came, soaking the blankets. "What? What's happening?"

Nuada didn't respond. She glanced into his gray-tinged face and saw his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. A wash of suddenly ice-cold air frosted down her spine. Fear froze her breath.  _Oh, no._

"Nuada?" She touched the hollow of his shoulder where it met his neck, feeling for his pulse. It was slow and thready, but there. His eyes flickered open. They were back to being as pale as lemon water, and his color was fading again. "What's wrong? What is it?"

"Dark magic... and something... something in the blood..." His fists clenched. He struggled to catch his breath using lungs suddenly gone tight, as if his chest were being gripped by a massive fist. The rowan-wood door rattled. Dylan, Nuada, and Wink turned toward it. The troll met the prince's golden gaze and nodded. Nuada groaned as he shifted position. "Hold them... off, Wink. I... cannot fight. Slow-acting... poison on the iron," he managed to grind out from between gritted teeth. "Eamonn..." Nuada tried to stand, and slid bonelessly to the floor when his legs buckled. Dylan shot to the ground beside him.

"What do I do?" She demanded, shoving at her hair. The door shuddered when someone banged against it. As ice filled Dylan's chest, she knew it wasn't anyone good. There was a flash, and the human tasted the starlit sweetness of magic on the air. At least the door was warded. "Do you know what kind of poison it is? Does it have an antidote?"

"He's going to die, little whore," a familiar, taunting voice called through the door. Wink growled. Nuada closed his eyes as a fresh wave of pain tore the breath from his lungs. Dylan began to tremble. Eamonn continued, "Give up and open the door."

_ Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin,  _ Dylan thought with no little hysteria. "Nuada... tell me what to do. Nuada? Please."

"Submit to me," the vicious Elf continued, "and I just might save him. I have the antidote with me. One drop will save the pathetic, worthless life of your lover, little human slut. Otherwise, Bethmoora will have no sovereign ever again."

Nuada jerked and his eyes flew open. His mind reached out, seeking his sister's thoughts. When he touched only blank emptiness, the first shards of fear pierced his heart. Was Nuala... dead? And his father... dead as well? Or merely unconscious? Maybe sealed behind a warding circle. There were so many things that could explain the void. But... had Eamonn killed them? If so, how was he still among the living?

"Let me in, you stupid tart," the dark Elf snarled. "Now! Or he dies, and his blood is on your hands!"

When Dylan shifted as if to go to the door, Nuada grabbed her arm. Even the small movement sent waves of nausea churning in his belly. Pain spiked his temples. "Do not trust him," he gasped out. He coughed hard enough his entire body shook. He tasted blood. "Eamonn lies."

"I know that," she said softly. "But he also tells the truth, when it suits him. I'm only going to talk to him, Your Highness. I'm not opening the door. It's just..." She cleared her throat and gave him a self-deprecating smile. "I'm so scared right now I can barely croak. He won't be able to hear me from here."

She stood behind Wink – she wasn't stupid – and thought,  _Heavenly Father, right now I feel like Moses. Please help me to be a little more like Aaron. I'd feel way, way better about that. Thou_   _madest_   _my tongue, so Thou_   _canst_   _do whatever Thoudesireth_   _with it. If Thou and the Lord_   _want me to sound like a spineless, gutless moron in front of Eamonn, then I guess I'll just have to live with it. But I really hope that's not the plan, because I'm scared to death. In the Lord's name, amen._

"Eamonn," Dylan called. "What did you do to the prince?"

"Concerned about your lover, human?" The Elf was sneering at her, she could hear it even through the door.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Just answer my question." She glanced at the Elf slumped against his sister's bed. Sweat had dampened the loose strands of his silvery blond hair to his forehead and neck. The blood still seeped from the now open lashes on his back. And was that a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of Nuada's mouth? Struggling to keep her voice even, she added, "What did you do to him, Eamonn?"

"A little powdered hemlock, a little oil of mistletoe, some essence of belladonna, a little ground mandrake root. Nothing too dangerous. Oh, and human pesticides from an aluminum aerosol can. I believe your kind call it... Raid?"

Dylan couldn't stop herself from clapping a hand to her mouth. She staggered back a step. Poisonous plants and Raid? Maybe if Nuada had been human and she could have taken him to a hospital, they could have done something. But not here. Not cut off from everyone who might be able to help except a burly troll and a mortal psychiatrist.  _Oh, Heavenly Father, what do I do? What do I_  do?  _He's going to die. That will kill him. This can't have all been for nothing, it can't have._

"What... what do you want in exchange for the antidote?" Dylan hated that she could hear tears in her voice. If she could, so could the silver-eyed Elf intent on Nuada's inhumation. And she knew Eamonn didn't have the antidote – or, on the off-chance that he  _did_ , would never give it to them. If Nuada somehow survived this night, the first thing on his agenda once he was back up to scratch would be to hunt Eamonn down and kill him in a very painful manner. But if...  _if_  there was a chance she could lure Eamonn into such a position that someone – Wink, maybe, or the faerie stag, if he still lived – could threaten his life, he might give up the antidote or the recipe for making it in exchange for his life. She was reaching (that was a  _big_ if, huge even –  ** _colossal_** ) but she couldn't just stand there and watch Nuada die.

"Well, besides the head of that disgusting troll on a spike, the crown of Bethmoora, and the death of your precious lily-white prince... I want to hear you scream and feel you dying under me as I take my pleasure in you."

Something slick and chilling slid through her stomach at the thought. She felt sick, bile rising in her throat, and she was certain she would've thrown up if not for Nuada's grunt of effort as he struggled to get to his feet again. He made it to his knees, leaning heavily on the bed, then was taken by a shuddering, hacking cough that seemed to rip out of him. Blood, thick and far too dark, seeped between his fingers when he covered his mouth with one hand.

_ What am I supposed to do?  _ She wailed silently.  _I don't know what to_  do!  _I don't have the priesthood, I'm not married to a priesthood holder – I can't give him a blessing of healing! What am I supposed to_  do?

Nuada collapsed against the bed again. Fresh blood spattered his chin, neck, and chest as he coughed. Through hazy eyes, he saw Dylan cover her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook. And somehow, strangely, distantly, he heard the fragile, desperate prayer,  _Heavenly Father, I'm really scared. Help me, please. Please. I'm scared._   _I have to save him. How do I save him?_

"Let me in, human," Eamonn called. "Let me enjoy you, and let Nuada watch. Then I will give him the antidote."

"Why is it always Mormon girls who have to put up with this crud?" She wondered bitterly, trying for a bit of levity to combat her rising hysteria. "If I were Lady Gaga, for example, I'd have no problem sleeping with ten Elves intent on screwing me blind! The killing, not so much, but still."

_ Don't think 'why me,' though,  _ she reminded herself, fighting the fear so she could think at least semi-clearly.  _Because I already know the answer. The answer is, you can handle it, you agreed to it, and for whatever reason, it's needful. Someone might learn something. It might even be me. And don't say 'I hate my life,' either,_ she added,  _because I don't and that would be a lie._

"I just hate  _this_ part," she said aloud.

She glanced at Nuada. His entire body was shuddering violently. Sweat slicked his skin. Pain twisted his features. Fresh blood continued to seep from between his dark lips, staining the deathly pale skin with dark gold. A sob caught in her throat as she realized she really didn't have a choice. Not unless she wanted to watch the Elf prince die right in front of her.

Dylan stepped past Wink. When he reached to grab her, she froze him with a look. "This will buy us a little time, hopefully. I will make him swear an oath, and I will swear an oath, and maybe Nuada will be okay. Your job is to protect him, not me. Do your job."

She heard Nuada struggling to get to his feet, or his knees even. When she looked at him, she saw him trying to drag himself toward her along the edge of the bed. Fury and desperation burned in his bronze eyes. Her heart hurt to see the proud Elf forced to practically crawl, and she almost backed down. But when Nuada had to stop to cough up more blood, she knew she couldn't.

_ Dear Heavenly Father,  _ she prayed silently as she approached the door _. I'm about to do something I know is a sin – willingly give myself up to be used sexually. But I'm doing it to save Nuada's life. He has saved me so many times, and I owe him. And I promise Thee, I'm almost definitely not going to enjoy this - unless Eamonn is part gancanagh, in which case I make no promises. I'm sorry, but I can't see another way out of this. Please protect Nuada and Wink. Please let this work. Please forgive me for what I'm about to let happen. And please... when I die... when Eamonn kills me... please don't let it hurt too much._   _But whatever happens, I know Thy_   _hand is in it. Thy_   _will be done, in Christ's name, amen._

"Dylan!" Nuada's voice was choked by blood and pain. "Dylan, no!"

Against every instinct, she ignored him.

"Eamonn! Swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that you will give Nuada the antidote and spare his and Wink's lives if I come out to you. In return, I swear, on that same Darkness, that you will not be punished for what you will do to me."

"Very well, human," Eamonn replied after only a moment. "I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, that if you come out to me, and give yourself to me, I will spare the lives of the troll called Wink and the crown prince, and the mighty Silverlance will receive my antidote."

Something zinged in her chest – the Spirit, warning her that all was not right with that promise. But she didn't know what was wrong, couldn't see where there might be a loophole for the evil Elf to hurt the prince or the troll. And they didn't have much time. She laid her hand on the door handle.

"Wink!" Nuada gasped. He'd heard every word of that silent prayer. She knew Eamonn meant to rape, torture and kill her! Yet she was going out there anyway, to buy them time, to save his life. His honor demanded he stop her. The debt he owed her could never be repaid, not now, and yet the stupid human continued to throw herself between him and harm, him and death. He was a warrior, he thought as pain racked his body. He accepted the inevitability of harm and death. And apparently, so did the human woman about to sacrifice herself for him yet again. "Wink! Do... do not let–"

Before he could give the order, she had the door open. Dylan shot him one final look - a look of fear and regret both, mingled with melancholy and farewell. He felt that look down to the marrow of his bones. And then she'd stepped out into the hall, and the door clicked shut behind her.

Wink groaned. She was gone. That human, the healer who had saved his prince five times now, was gone.

Nuada stared at the door as agony burned in his belly and blood dripped onto the carpet with every hacking cough. He had failed. She was gone. Dylan was gone. Eamonn would hurt her - viciously, violently, until his twisted appetites were finally sated - and then he would butcher her. And he, Nuada Silverlance, had failed to protect her. His honor hung in tatters. He had failed. Eamonn had succeeded in shaming him. And Dylan... Dylan would...

_ Dylan... _

Suddenly, from the other side of the door, she began to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> \- John is trying to get into the Men In Black. Yes, that is Agent J.  
> \- John gets sucked into a time-warpy pocket dimension because I made Dylan 29 and his twin, then saw HB1 again after posting ch9. Turns out, John's 27 in the movie, which takes place 3-4 years after the beginning of the fic, so I had to figure out a way for John to be 27, even though Dylan will be, like, 35.  
> \- Shambala is an Asian version of Eden (paradise garden, not origin of mankind); another version would be Shangri-La.  
> \- Mormon doctrine states mankind has come to Earth to be tested to the breaking point. God won't test you past that, but it will be up to that point. Doctrine also says everyone agreed to their individual tests and trials before coming here.  
> \- The troll talking to the blond is Stanley from A Troll in Central Park, one of my favorite Don Bluth films. The girl is a "grown up" Rosie, who is one of the 2 human MCs in the film (she's like, 1 and a half in the movie, though).  
> \- Nuada's wish to hear one more story... I can't say if it was or wasn't inspired by Arwen in Return of the King. In the film, as she's dying at Rivendell, she says, "I wish I could have seen him one last time." That whole thing – Aragorn seeing her that way, her being that way – really stuck with me.  
> \- Rack, Shack, & Benny are the Veggie Tales© characters representing (and my nickname for) the men Amrach, Meshack, and Abednego who were told they would be cast into "a fiery furnace" if they didn't worship a golden idol. They didn't (being Jewish), and got tossed into the furnace, and survived without damage. In Veggie Tales, it was a giant chocolate bunny.  
> \- A sithen is an Irish faery mound or faery hill.  
> \- "The white beast of a faery tale" - in book 1, Dylan refers to Nuada as a "beast" in opposition to the "wolves" who are attacking her.  
> \- Nixies are Germanic river mermaids; a male is called a nix. Also spelled "nixe."  
> \- Asrai are an English water faery, similar to mermaids or nixies.  
> \- A gancanagh is a seduction faerie; their skin secrets this highly addictive crud, so that a human quickly becomes literally addicted to their touch. One kiss from a gancanagh who means no harm probably won't hurt.  
> \- Samhain is the old name for the solar festival that falls on Halloween.  
> \- Morgen: Welsh water sprite.  
> \- Kobolds are a type of sprite that lives in various places (houses, mines, or boats); the one Dylan was taking care of was a house kobold (a German Brownie – Brownies being Scottish). Their favorite food is grits (ew).  
> \- A sylph is a Western-style air faery, originally deriving from Paracelsus' alchemical explanation of air elementals (Paracelsus is one of the most famous alchemists in history). In modern usage, especially due to the ballet La Sylphide (in English, "The Sylph," not to be confused with Les Sylphides), sylphs are considered more fairy than elemental. Typically they are the standard image of a fairy – a tiny, slender girl with gossamer wings who flits about.  
> \- All of Dylan's dishes and utensils are made of wood (carved with bronze or silver carving tools) or porcelain, to avoid metal contamination in her house.  
> \- Aldonza is the female lead in the musical version of the novel Don Quixote, which is called The Man of La Mancha (the main guy being from La Mancha).  
> \- Hemlock is super poisonous.  
> \- Mistletoe is poisonous if you eat it or if it gets in your bloodstream.  
> \- Belladonna is poisonous, although in the old days women used it as a cosmetic (along with arsenic).  
> \- Mandrake root actually exists. Not only is it poisonous, but if you burn it, the smoke is poisonous, too.  
> \- The Priesthood, according to Mormon doctrine, is literally the Power of God on Earth, given to worthy male Latter-Day Saints. Any specific questions about that, feel free to message me.  
> \- I have no issue with Lady Gaga (other than some of her songs, like "Judas," offend the Spirit). In fact, I am a HUGE fan of her songs "Edge of Glory," "Bad Romance," "Telephone," and "Born This Way" I just couldn't think of anyone off the top of my head who was famous, other than her or maybe Madonna, who might sleep with ten people at once. *shrug*  
> \- Okay, the prayer Dylan says before walking into the hall. There's not, like, a precedent for this, but basically, she is being forced to let Eamonn do whatever to her because if she doesn't, Nuada will probably die. In my opinion, forcing someone to have sex with you by threatening the life of someone else counts as rape, and the LDS Church does not believe someone who is raped committed sexual sin. However, because Dylan is choosing to go into the hallway, she's basically just covering all of her bases. She knows premarital sex is a sin, and she's going to let Eamonn have at her, but it's for a good cause, so please no smiting, that sort of thing.


	3. Sweet, Bruising Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dylan has offered herself to Eamonn's not-so-tender mercies to protect Prince Nuada, but the Zwezdan-Bethmooran Elf is a master of deceit. While Nuada battles the poison in his veins and the enemies all around him, Eamonn concocts a way to break his heart by killing Dylan as violently as possible...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concerning the chapter title: "Sweet, Bruising Skin" is a short story by Storm Constantine, found in the anthology Black Thorn, White Rose.
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains violence against women, blood, torture, poison, lung bleeds, pain, assassination attempts, nosebleeds, bruises, beatings, broken bones and the breaking thereof, death threats, unconsciousness, threats of rape, and implications of same. Reader discretion is advised.

** 3\. Sweet, Bruising Skin **

** that is **

** A Short Tale of Faery Lies, the Nature of Antidotes, Inheritance, Truth, and the Price of Vengeance **

.

.

She knew the instant she saw Eamonn, the sick grin spreading like a disease across his cruelly handsome face. Icy understanding chilled her to the marrow. Dylan took a step back. Her hand automatically reached for the door handle, but she stopped herself. He couldn't... wouldn't! Even Eamonn wouldn't risk certain death at the ravenous appetite of the Living Darkness.

But then the dark-haired Elf's grin twisted. Madness and triumph flared in his eyes.

"Thank you, human, for breaking the ward around the door. It had to be opened from the inside for us to get in, you see."

Dylan turned to run back inside but suddenly Eamonn was there, slamming her bodily into the cold stone wall with bone-crunching force. Fear clawed at the mortal's stomach as the Elf pressed himself against her back. One gloved hand held her thin wrists above her head at a nauseatingly painful angle. Her shoulders burned and she tasted blood where she'd cut her lips on her teeth. Her bad leg threatened to buckle.

"You said you would spare them!" She cried, twisting and struggling against his hold. She realized then that the one time Nuada had grabbed her by the throat, he hadn't been using anywhere close to his full strength.

When the human tried to bring her heel down on Eamonn's instep, to force him to let her go, pain radiated from her striking foot up her leg to briefly numb her bad knee. He slammed her into the wall again. Stars flared and went nova in her head. "That actually hurt, you little bitch." His fist planted in the middle of her back. She choked on a scream. "I hope that did, too."

Once she could breathe around the pain, she gasped, "You swore! You can't do this! You swore on the Darkness!"

"And  _I_ ** _will_** spare them," he said. His breath burned against her ear. His fingers bit deep into her wrists. "But my warriors and my master hunger for the death of the lily-white prince. I will take the human somewhere less... conspicuous," Eamonn added to the Elves and other fae in the corridor. "I don't want anyone inconvenient to hear her screaming. The rest of you, do as you planned: follow Gwydion and take down the troll. Watch out for that metal arm of his. Remember, aim for the toes. Sreng... you can handle Silverlance, can you not?"

A red-haired Elf with strangely long, muscular arms and blazing eyes like blue stones grinned and nodded. Unlike the other Elves, he wore no armor and only carried a sword, nearly as tall as he was. She knew that sword from her college classes:  _Claiomh Solais_ , the Sword of Light, one of the Four Treasures of the Tuatha dé. No one could escape it once drawn from its sheath, and no one could resist it.

_ No... oh, Heavenly Father, no. Please, please, no! He'll kill Nuada with that! How did he even _  get  _it?_

"You lied! You said you'd give Nuada the antidote!" She twisted and brought her foot down hard on his instep again.

He growled in pain between clenched teeth, but didn't loosen his hold. A well-aimed fist to the small of her back made stars explode behind her eyes. Pain hummed a brutal symphony through her body as his fist connected with her kidney again.

Dylan screamed and sagged against the wall. Only Eamonn's grip kept her on her feet as her knees quivered. Breath shuddered as she tried to force it into her lungs. "You lied... how..."

"What better antidote than death?"

"Monster," she whispered, fighting the nauseating pain. A hollow heat burned in her lower back. Sucking in a breath, Dylan snarled, "I name you oathbreak-"

She yelped when, with only a casual slap against her arm, he dislocated her wrist. Dylan fought to turn around so she could kick him, so she could break free, anything, but the furious Elf planted his hand on the back of her head and shoved once, quickly; almost gently. For him. The rough stone of the wall ripped cuts in her skin. His stone-hard palm pressed harder, and pain exploded inside her skull. She literally felt the bones creaking under the pressure. Was he going to crush her skull right there?

He tightened his grip on the back of her head. Dylan couldn't stop the whimper that crawled out of her mouth. From behind her, the other Fayre in league with Eamonn laughed and made jokes about the feisty human slut.

"How many times must I tell you, human?" Eamonn shifted slightly, and something cold and hard pressed against the clasp of her bra through her shirt: the pommel of a small blade; a dirk or sword-breaker, maybe. Sweat stood out on her face as the round pommel, the size of a duck egg, slid down her spine to the small of her back. "I would not say such things if I were you." He smashed the metal pommel hard into her spine. She screamed as fire flared through her back, followed by a sickening numbness. Eamonn pressed his lips to her ear. "Do you know what I could do to you with this, human? I could cut you into little pieces with this and feed them one by one to your precious prince." His chuckle was like the scrape of steel against bone. "I might just do that, actually, when I've finished playing with you."

_ Don't panic _ , Dylan practically pleaded with herself, but the tears were coming now, free and unencumbered. She couldn't stop herself from weeping quietly as Eamonn continued to hiss vicious promises in her ear. The pommel slid down further to rest against her tail bone. The human stiffened. Fear choked her into absolute silence. If he hit her there... if he cracked or smashed the bone there...

Then Eamonn hauled her around and slung her, now kicking and screaming, over his shoulder and turned away from his men. "Kill them. But take your time with the prince. I want him to 'enjoy' every minute of his death... and hers."

Everything in the mortal went still. She sucked in a breath and screamed. "Wink! Wink, it's a trap!  _It's a trap!_ "

Eamonn cursed and threw her to the ground. The initial impact silenced her. Her skull smashed into the floor with a brutal  _crack_. The air exploded from her lungs. Brilliant multicolored fireworks burst in front of her eyes. After a moment, she tried to sit up and the room spun sickeningly.  _Oh, no,_ Dylan realized as blood trickled from one ear.  _Concussion. Bad one. Really... really bad._

She tried to get up again. Something that felt like the broadside of a semi smashed into her face. Pain exploded in one cheek, and she felt blood drip down her face and soak into her hair. Dylan groaned and tried to roll over, tried to get away from Eamonn and go to the troll and the Elven prince behind the door. Eamonn growled something about humans clearly not getting the message and planted his foot in her ribs. Two of them gave with a vicious  _crunch_  under the force of his kick. She screamed again and fell in a heap on the floor.

The furious Elf grabbed her by one arm and settled for dragging her down the hall. His fingers bit deep into her skin. She could feel the bones in her arm grinding together in his grip. Dylan twisted and screamed, struggling to get away, even as the agony inside her skull intensified. Dizziness and nausea threatened to knock her unconscious, but she kept struggling. Panic had her in its grip, choking her, ripping at her insides. She knew if she passed out now, she would never wake up. Tears poured down her face. Terror flooded through her as she was dragged further and further away from Nuada and Wink.

Just when Eamonn began turning the corner, Dylan heard a door slam open and the infuriated roar of a silver mountain troll.

**. **

Wink flung the goblin-forged metal hand at one of the Fir Bholg while he flung a Tylwyth Teg across the room. He stood between Eamonn's warriors and the barely conscious Elven prince, determined not to let a single one through. Nuada struggled to rise, but every time he made it so much to his knees, the room began to spin and the blood roared in his ears. Dylan... he  _must_ get to Dylan. Must stop Eamonn from hurting her further.

And if she were already dead... no. No, Eamonn wanted to take his time. The dark Elf did not wish only to use her and then kill her. He meant to torture her, to hurt her in every way possible, for a  _very_  long time. He would not slay her out of hand.

_ Nuala _ , he thought, called with heart and mind and magic. Was she truly dead? He found only void, only dark emptiness. But then... why was he not dead? How had he survived the felling stroke? No, she was only out of reach. She had to be out of reach... or refusing to answer him.  _Nuala... help me. The human... I must save her. Help me, Sister._

_ Nuada?  _ Sweet magic inside his skull. Immediately he could feel the healing magic being continuously poured into her, feel as it flowed into him through their connection.  _Brother?_

_ Sister, the human _ . He grabbed the blood-stained blankets and tried to pull himself up. His pride raged at the Fir Bholg and other Fayre allowed to see him so weakened, but his fury superseded his pride as he thought of the vile images the dark Elf had shown him when Eamonn had been flaying the flesh from his back.  _Nuala, Eamonn has taken the human. He means to butcher her. Help me..._ Nuada managed to attain his feet, despite the throbbing in his skull and the lancing pain in his chest. He hacked and coughed once more. Spat blood.  _I cannot fight him alone. He has poisoned me. Help me, I beg you._

_ Poison? _  He felt his sister's sudden stab of fear, then a rush of magical healing energy. The pain in his skull diminished slightly. Blood was still a salt-sweet tang in his mouth, but his lungs no longer felt as if gripped by a giant's fist. The princess added,  _Nuada, take what aid I can offer and draw your sword!_

_ I cannot, _  he replied, staggering as he pushed away from the bed. His back and shoulders burned. His chest ached and his belly churned from the poison. Only the magic infusing his body enabled him to stay on his feet.  _I have no weapons. I surrendered them when I entered. They knew..._  you  _knew I would come armed. You wanted to be sure I would not kill my accuser._

_ Then take the Spear upon my wall! It is yours by right! You are the eldest! _

Nuada glanced at the long-shafted throwing spear high on the wall. Elvish runes of inlaid gold glinted around the edges of the razor-sharp point, spelling something in Gaelic. The Spear of Light.  _I have not the strength to reach it_ , he realized when he tried to leap for it and only managed to take another stumbling step.  _The poison is still too strong in my blood._

The Elven prince felt his sister's shame and grief, knew she blamed herself for his condition. He ignored her. He did not wish to hurt Nuala, and there was no time to comfort her. He needed a weapon he could reach. Something that could stand against-

Wink roared in pain, and Nuada stumbled forward. The silver troll had fallen to his knees, clutching his hand of troll flesh. Dark blood oozed between the metal fingers clutching his injured hand. A large sword glinted in the fire- and candlelight, slick and dark with Wink's blood. The Fir Bholg who had cut the troll turned to Nuada and grinned. Beneath the coating of blood, runes gleamed in the light. Fury was ice-cold in Nuada's veins as he recognized the Sword of the Tuatha dé. Lost before the forging of the Golden Army, it would have been part of the prince's inheritance. Now a filthy Son of Dela wielded the might sword shaped of pure star-metal and tempered in Brighid's Forge. The thought nearly choked him.

"That belongs to  _me_ ," the prince growled at Sreng. Rage and magic fueled him as he stepped forward. "I will have it back."

"You will die, Silverlance," Sreng said. Was that  _joy_  in the faerie's voice? "That is all you will do: die. None can withstand the Sword of your people."

"Except the Spear of Light!"

Sreng shouted in alarm as Nuada turned to see the little brownie from the subway tunnels and another brownie – the one from Dylan's cottage, he realized – hanging from the wall tapestries and lifting the heavy Spear with strength and magic. Gathering his strength, the Elf lunged forward as the Spear fell. It landed in his outstretched hand. Nuada heard the thunder of racing feet. He whirled, swinging the Spear underhanded, and brought it up to clash against the long blade of the Sword. Shock reverberated up Nuada's arms. Pain screamed from his back as the Sword pressed down on him. His chest burned, but he did not allow himself to double over with the hurt, only choked on the blood in his lungs and fought for breath.

"Help Wink if you can, Brighid! Becan!" Nuada shouted, and shoved the Sword back from him. He lunged, thrusting the Spear-tip toward Sreng's belly, but the Fir Bholg smashed the weapon aside.

Sreng tried to slice at Nuada's belly, but he was at a disadvantage with the huge sword, even though the Elven prince was slow and weak from the poison. As Nuala continued to pour healing magic into him, the prince's speed increased and his reflexes sharpened. Adrenaline burned in his blood as he fought. Sweat slicked his skin. But his heart was calm and steady in its beating as he blocked the Sword's attacks and slashed at the Fir Bholg with the Spear.

Wink was getting to his feet. Already his troll hide was covering the vicious wound dealt him by the red-haired Fir Bholg. The blasted Elf of Eirc had managed to cut off the tip of his little finger and big toe! A troll's toes were their most sensitive part; very much like being struck in the genitals for a human male. But the gravelly troll skin was forming to protect the wound and stop the bleeding. And in the meantime, he could still handle these pathetic traitors. Nuada seemed to be improving. Somehow. The silver troll shook his head and broke a dark-haired Elf's neck with a sharp twist. Perhaps the so-called princess was aiding him in some way. It mattered little right now. They needed to finish this fight and get to the human woman before that coward Eamonn managed to fulfill whatever twisted fantasies he had in mind.

Someone slashed at the back of his thigh and Wink stumbled. As a sword hurtled toward his unprotected face, several heavy glass pots of cosmetics flew through the air and smashed into both blade and blade-wielder, knocking the attack away. Wink saw a brownie - a boggart? - conducting flying cosmetic dishes and candle holders towards the attackers as if he conducted a symphony. One of the warriors rushing at Wink suddenly flipped onto his back, and the troll realized a second brownie had used magic to pull the rug out from under the attacking fuath's feet.

The troll roared in triumph as he slew the last of the attackers, the Tylwyth Teg known as Gwydion. Then Wink turned toward Nuada, locked in combat with the Fir Bholg man wielding the Sword of Victory.

"Forget me, old friend! You must save Dylan! Take the little ones with you!"

"I will not!" Wink bulldozed toward Sreng, but one of the chairs from Nuala's vanity table flew into the air and cracked the Fir Bholg across the back of the head, followed by several heavy vases and clay pots full of flowers. Blinded by water, earth, and plant matter, Sreng did not see the blow that sliced across his chest, or the second slice that severed the tendons in his left hand. He dropped the Sword from suddenly limp fingers and began to step back, still blinded by the dirt from the potted plants. Nuada twisted and thwacked his enemy once, bone-jarringly hard, on the side of the head where the jaw met the skull. The blow dropped Sreng like a stone.

"You did not kill him, Your Highness," Brighid called as she hopped from the vanity's white marble counter. "Why?"

"To slay one who cannot see the blow coming is dishonorable, if it can be avoided," Nuada wheezed, struggling for breath. His back screamed at him that it  _hurt_ , but he ignored it, just as he ignored the ache in his shoulders and the burning tightness in his chest. All would ease in time. Nuala had promised not to abandon him while he searched for the human woman. "Though not so when necessary. Still, I could not leave him conscious. The guards ought to find him." The prince shifted the Spear and willed it to retract, as his lance did. The ancient weapon complied. Next he bent down, ignoring the shriek of half-healed wounds ripping back open, and hefted the Sword. It shrank even as he touched it, until it was the size of a standard longsword. He had always preferred the weapons of Briton.

"Come," he commanded in a strained voice. "We must save Dylan."

Both brownies scurried over to the pair of warriors, raced up Wink's legs, and settled themselves on his broad, gravelly shoulders. "To my mistress!" One of the brownies, eyes flashing red as a boggart's, raised one tiny fist in fury and determination. "Save her from the Zwezdan Elf scum!"

Nuada almost smiled.

**. **

"Oathb-" The crack of Eamonn's hand across her face knocked the words from her mouth. The human struck the wall hard enough she cried out. Blood dripped into her eyes. She slid to the floor, but managed to open her mouth and choke out, "Oathbr-"

"If you attempt to say that word one more time I will shatter your jaw," Eamonn snarled, and Dylan's mouth snapped shut. He grabbed her by the throat, enjoying the flutter of her frantic pulse against his palm as he yanked her to her feet. Blood dribbled from the cuts his blows had left across her mouth and cheek. The rough stone walls had left raw scrapes across the exposed skin of her forehead and even her wrists and arms. Her bleeding hands scrabbled at his wrist in a vain attempt to force him to release her. He tightened his grip and she choked. "Ah. That's better."

Maybe he should just kill her now. It would be so delicious to watch her struggle for air as he slowly squeezed the breath from her lungs. And then he could show Nuada every moment: how she would weep as she died, the way her eyes would bulge from their sockets and she would struggle like a trapped insect against his merciless hold. Nuada's pain would be so  _good_  then.

But it would be so much worse for the Silver Lance if he took the little whore to the prince's bed first. Eamonn cocked his head and studied the mortal. She was not ugly, per se. It was the scars that made her so hideous. She stank of humanity, but he could live with that. And if he could project each moment into Nuada's mind as the Elven warrior died and the pathetic human bled out beneath him...

"Coward," she gasped out.

His silver eyes latched onto her face. This.  _This_  was why he wanted to throttle the life out of her. Why was she unafraid of him?  _Why?_

" _What_  did you say?"

"Coward!" Dylan tried to scream it, but the last syllable ended in a gurgle as Eamonn's fingers bit deep into her throat.

"I wish I had more time," Eamonn said on a sigh. The blood was roaring in Dylan's ears. Her heart hammered. Her lungs screamed. Air, she needed air! She couldn't breathe, couldn't... "If I could chain him to a wall, perhaps, and force him to actually watch what I do to you... maybe that would satisfy me.

"I could shatter the face he loves so much into pieces if I had the time. You would not look at me with disgust then. You would not be able to look at anything beyond the blood in your eyes. Then I would crush every bone in your body until the shock of it, the awful sickening agony of it, stole the life from you. As you lay dying I would do everything in my power to rip the heart from Nuada's chest. Then I would make him watch the life fade from your eyes and hear your final breath rattle in your chest. And I would finally see the proud and mighty Silverlance broken."

He smiled at the tears that welled up in her too-fey eyes.

"But unfortunately, I don't have the time." A dispassionate gaze of icy silver swept over her features as he relaxed his hold once more. "How can he stand to rut with you? A human. It is a betrayal of everything he stands for. And you... you're disgusting. A filthy mortal whore. You're not even pretty. It is  _revolting_."

"We're... not... having sex," she coughed out as she slid to the floor. Gasping, she clutched her throat. Any movement made her head throb and her bones ache. Every breath sent red-hot shards of pain through her body, and she couldn't seem to catch her breath. The human coughed again. Covered her mouth and kept hacking. Something bright red splashed onto her hand: blood.

_ He punctured my lung, _  she realized.  _When he threw me down and broke my ribs. I'm dying._

Strangely, the thought didn't frighten her. In fact, she hadn't been frightened since Eamonn had dragged her up the stairs and into a bedroom. Inside of her had only been a strange and dazed calm, except when the dark Elf spoke of Nuada. Then there had been sharp grief like a knife. Fear, but for  _him,_  not herself. Maybe she was in shock, since the thought of dying only served to make her sad.

_ I wish I could've done more, but... I guess it's time. _  Would she live long enough for Eamonn to actually get around to torturing and raping her? Maybe if she kept him talking, he would forget what his purpose in kidnapping her actually was.

"Why... do you hate him so much?" There was a tickle in her throat. Should she cough and try to hack up more blood, clear her lungs and give herself more time? Or let the blood pool and drown her? "Did he steal your girlfriend or something? Sleep with your sister? Turn you down when you asked to sleep with him? What?"

The traitorous Elf's boot slammed into her side. A muffled  _crunch_  and a sheet of burning fire made her scream and scramble to get away from him. Pain swamped her. Raked at her. Eamonn kicked her again in her bad knee. Something shifted painfully. Shocks of pain exploded up and down her leg. Dylan fell onto her belly on the floor and struggled instinctively to remain conscious.

"First of all, he is a traitor for swiving with a human like  _you_." He toed her sharply with his boot. Pain turned her vision white for a minute. She struggled to stay afloat in a storm of fire and nausea. "Yet even before that, I knew the rule of Nuada's line had failed. He is just the next piece of proof saying such. His sister is spineless. He ruts with mortals. His father is a gutless coward who betrays the Faery races to humans day after day! And when it was obvious Balor no longer deserved to be king, Nuada should have risen up and slain his father! Taken the throne! Made amends to the Hidden People on behalf of the royal families. Instead he sulked off into exile like a spoiled child and left us to fend for ourselves. I and my master have had enough of Bethmoora's royal line and their empty promises."

She couldn't breathe. Each breath stuttered in her lungs. Made her head scream with the agony in her skull. Every beat of her heart brought her closer to death. And all she could think of was,  _Please, God, my gracious God... please don't let Nuada die. Please. This can't have been for nothing. Please, the world needs fae like him. Please..._

"I want to test something, human," Eamonn said suddenly. "Renounce the High King of the World. Tell me you are not His servant. I might let you go." Dylan couldn't get enough air to say, "No, you wouldn't," but it was in her eyes, on her face. The Elf grinned. "I might. You never can tell."

She shook her head. His boot stomped down on her foot – she'd lost her tennis shoe somewhere. She found she had enough breath to scream when her toes crunched under the blow. She struggled to push up to her hands and knees, or even just drag herself along on her elbows. Anything to get away from him. Eamonn reached down and hauled her up by one arm. Her head snapped around on her neck. Pain shot up and down her spine.

Bleary eyes focused on a painting on the opposite wall. A painting of Nuala. Then she saw the weapons hanging from the walls. Dylan blinked and realized through the fog of burning agony where she was: Nuada's room. Eamonn would torture and rape her here, in Nuada's room, on Nuada's bed, to hurt the Elven prince. To shatter him.

_ No... _

"Deny your God, mortal, and I shall spare you."

"N-no..."

He jerked his hand in a sharp twist. The bone in her arm snapped. She screamed again, choked on more blood. Eamonn's gentle smile could've cut to the bone. "I know what I can do, since I seem to be running out of time. Before I kill you, I might just..." He grabbed her free hand and laced his fingers with hers. Touched her thoughts. Surrounded her consciousness with his mind. Found music playing in her head and prayers running frantically through her feeble mortal mind: prayers for Nuada, for the troll, for those who fought Eammon's people. Prayers for herself. "Oh, how very touching. So sweet. But I much prefer  _this_."

And as he showed her everything he hoped to do to her - the shattering of her bones like glass, blood flowing hot and red as he cut into her with blades of flesh and metal, and always the reminder that when it ended, Nuada would die with shame coiling in his belly, with grief and guilt burning through him, and Eamonn's knife in his heart - all of it surrounded her mind with the vicious waking nightmares, and Eamonn thought,  _Well, if Nuada isn't yet dead, he will certainly hear her screaming._

**. **

Nuada froze when an agonized scream echoed down the stairs.

_ Danu's mercy _ ...

Then the images slammed into his mind, so vicious and brutal he staggered with them: Dylan, always Dylan, hurt, bruised and bleeding, screaming, sobbing, struggling to escape Eamonn. Blood stained her lips, soaked her clothes. The prince recognized his own room at his father's palace, recognized the crimson silk sash the dark-haired Elf used to tie Dylan's hands together. Something was wrong with her chest; only one side rose and fell as she gasped for breath. Her bad knee was swollen to twice its normal size. And her bare foot was a mass of sickening purple and white bruises.

As Nuada struggled to free himself from the vile images, Eamonn struck Dylan across the face. She spat crimson from between bleeding lips. Eamonn hit her again. Her head snapped viciously to one side. The dark Elf strode over to the weapons rack against the far wall and snagged an ebony  _hanbō_  from its place. Hefting the short staff, the Elf went back to Dylan and smiled. Caressed her bruised face with the end of the staff.

"Arms or legs, sweetness?"

The terror in those silver-blue eyes was like ash in Nuada's mouth. Dylan whispered brokenly, "Don't... please... please don't show him."

"Arms or legs? Choose, or it's both."

The mortal's chin dropped to her chest and she whispered in defeat, "Legs."

"Ah. We'll make you a little mermaid," Eamon said cheerfully. "Just like the human tale."

The dark-haired Elf of Zwezda raised the ebony  _hanbō_  and brought it down hard across Dylan's shin. Another scream ripped out of her mouth. Screams and sobs. The  _hanbō_  came down on her leg again.

_ Stop! Eamonn! Leave her alone! _  Nuada jerked himself free of Eamonn's grip and hauled himself up the steep stone stairs. His wounds were almost healed thanks to his sister, but the poison still slowed him and made it hard to fight. He knew he would have to recover from that before he had any hope of battling Eamonn. The dark Elf was nearly as skilled of a fighter as Nuada himself. Yet he  _could not wait!_

_ Come and get her, Silverlance. Maybe you'll arrive before I finish. _

_ Monster. _  He would kill Eamonn. Forget honor. Forget chivalry and justice. He would cut Eamonn down like the sickening dog he was, even if he were unarmed and helpless. The Zwezda Elf would die this night.

The screaming abruptly stopped.

**. **

Perhaps he'd been too rough with her. Eamonn wondered about that, as the mortal was staring up at the ceiling with vacant blue eyes. Blood trickled from both nostrils and one ear. Smeared the flesh around her mouth. Her breathing was shallow and wet. The Elf remembered vaguely that all of that was bad as far as humans were concerned. Ah, well. He would still have to finish her off. It would not do for Nuada to arrive in the nick of time to heal her of the damage. Though just in case, he'd leave a little surprise for the both of them...

"I wonder who suffered more," the Elf whispered, lightly caressing the human's face. She did not even flinch when his fingers grazed the bleeding gash on her cheek. "You, or him? After what happened to his mother the queen... I can only imagine how much it hurt him to see  _you_  in the same dire straits. If he is not in love with you yet, he's close enough that killing you this way will make me  _very_  happy. He'll carry the horror and guilt of her death and yours until I finally put an end to him."

Suddenly the human swallowed and blinked. She dragged in a ragged breath. Her eyes cleared, focused. "You're... an idiot."

_ What? How is she still conscious? _  Aloud he demanded, "What do you mean?"

"It's not... love... that makes him... hunt you this way." She tried to take a breath and choked on the blood in her lungs. Coughed and hacked. Crimson stained her mouth and chin. Finally she managed to gasp, "You're a... traitor. Take... me out of... the equation, and he'd still... hunt you down like a dog."

Fury burned in his chest and he grabbed her hand again. Laced his fingers with her. Fitted his fingertips to the black bruises he had left in her fragile human flesh. Pressed until bone shifted under his grip. "Watch your mouth, little whore. I am no traitor. He's the traitor! For loving you. For loving a human slut.  _I am no traitor._ "

"Yes you are." The human coughed again. Made sure to spit blood on Eamonn's cheek. Somehow, the rage in his eyes didn't frighten her. "You're a traitor... and a coward-"

He tightened his grip on her hand until he felt bone splinter and then hurled every vile, despicable, vicious thing he had ever planned for her into her mind. Eamonn battered against her consciousness as he made her think he battered against her body. Delicate bone crumbled beneath his grip as his fingers tighted further around her hand. Silver-washed blue eyes flew wide. Went glassy again. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Bruises bloomed like black roses against her skin. Faded. Exploded into vibrant, violent color once more. The human began to choke on the blood in her lungs.

And  _still_  it was not enough! Nothing he did to this human whore would  _ever_  be enough until the lily-white prince was on his belly like a worm, begging for mercy! Eamonn surrounded the mortal's every thought with the horror and violence he wanted to inflict on her. Made sure she tasted the blood; felt the pain of blows raining down on her like hell; felt things breaking and tearing inside her as the dark Elf brought all of his strength down on her; understood the despair of impending, brutal and bloody death. Made sure she realized Nuada was  _never_  going to save her.

Then he added to the illusion. Built an image of Nuada, bleeding and dying, chained to the wall by iron, watching everything Eamonn did to his human slut. He showed her Nuada weeping; Nuada struggling against spiked iron chains that burned and seared; Nuada fighting those chains and the Fomorians, Fir Bholg, and other Fayre who savagely beat him; he fought them to reach her as Eamonn inflicted every possible torture and degradation on the fragile human, as he literally tore her slowly apart before her lover's eyes. He heard the mortal screaming desperately for help deep in her own mind. Relished the sight of the silent tears streaking from sightless eyes down her bruised and battered face.

Then and only then did he wrap his free hand around her throat and begin to squeeze for the last time. His fingers bit deep into her throat. He felt the delicate larynx begin to give beneath the pressure of his throttling grip.

A troll roared on the other side of the bedroom door. Eamonn's concentration faltered for an instant and the door ripped off its hinges and flew over the shoulder of an enraged silver troll. In an eye-blink the dark Elf released the nearly-dead human and grabbed his sword. He dodged the furious troll's blow only to come face to face with Nuada, who drew his own Sword. Eamonn swore when he recognized the Sword of Victory, last seen in the hands of Sreng.

"Yes," Nuada snarled. "It is mine now, as it should be." The Elven prince thrust and lunged for the other Elf, but Eamonn dodged and ducked, weaved and bobbed like a jackrabbit. He knew his own blade was no match for the Sword of the Tuatha dé. His only hope was to make his way to the door and run. He would return another day to finish the lily-white prince.

"I would not tarry long with me, Silverlance," Eamonn called, doing a backflip out of the way of Nuada's strike. "Your whore lies dying even as we speak." And in his mind, the dark Elf called mockingly,  _Why did you not tell me her lips taste of strawberries and mead? Feel like paradise?_   _I would have paid her a visit all the sooner._

" _Liar!_  She lives!" Infuriated, Nuada thrust again. The tip of the Sword slid across Eamonn's leg, slicing a line across the leather trews that welled up and bled dark silver. "I'll have spilled your heart's blood before the night is over. I will have your head on a spike for what you have done to her."

Wink looked between his prince and the mortal. Although badly bruised and bloodied, she looked alive. There was no sign that Eamonn had fulfilled his promise. And yet... the ghostly color to her flesh, the vacant look in her eyes... Wink moved to her and stared down. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Only one side of her chest rose and fell with her breath. The human began to choke. The troll hastily turned her on her side as blood bubbled up from between her slack lips and spilled onto the bed. Dylan coughed weakly.

"Nuada! There is no time! Leave him!" Wink roared. "She is dying!"

The pale prince jerked involuntarily toward his vassal and the mortal. In that moment of distraction, Eamonn slammed his dagger hilt-deep in Nuada's side. As the blond Elf stumbled, the dark-haired Elf wrenched the blade free and ran. Nuada fell to his knees.

"Nuada!" Wink's voice, and Nuala's. The prince looked up to see his sister rushing into the room followed by a bevy of Elven healers. He climbed to his feet and stumbled toward Dylan prostrate on the bed. Nuala went to his side. "Eamonn, did he-"

"No time," the troll interrupted the princess. "She needs healing, and so does the prince."

"I... I am well enough, Wink," Nuada mumbled, pressing a hand to his side. Nuala had yet to restrict the healing magic pouring into him. He would be fine. But Dylan... He stared down at the human on the bed;  _his_  bed. Eamonn would have raped her in  _his_  bed. Sickness coiled in his belly along with the nauseating pain. Nuada's mind felt filthy, and memories of his mother's death blurred into the vicious images of Dylan that Eamonn had spilled into his skull. Had he been in time, then? Had he preserved his honor? Saved her from that fate? As long as she survived, his honor would remain intact. As long as she lived...

But how had Eamonn known the taste of Dylan's lips? Something cold clenched hard around the prince's heart at the thought of the traitorous faerie laying his own mouth upon the human's. Tasting the blood on her lips. Stealing a kiss from her.  _I will kill him even more slowly for that._

"I... feel... stupid," Dylan gasped, and Nuada jerked in shock. Consciousness had returned to her gaze and she was struggling to breathe more deeply. "Really... really... stupid. All that... pointless." The mortal hacked blood. "Sorry... Your Highness."

"You tried to save my brother's life thrice this night," the princess said gently as the healers began working on the human. Nuala glanced at her brother, who glared at the human with furious bronze eyes. "That is  _nothing_  to apologize for," she added firmly.

"He lied... stupid... Eamonn... should've known..."

"Stop talking," Nuada snapped suddenly. The room was spinning. His side was on fire. He could still feel the phantom of the blade as it drove deep into his side. "Save your strength. As for Eamonn... truth is beyond him. Rest now. We will discuss your stupidity after your wounds are seen too. Idiot human. If you ever attempt such a thing again, I shall kill you myself."

"Uh-huh... ow. Broken ribs... punctured... my lung... really bad concussion..."

"I told you to stop talking. Must I silence you myself?"

Impossibly, Dylan smiled at him through bloodstained lips. Lips that Eamonn claimed tasted of honeyed mead and strawberries. When he snarled at her in irritation - this was  _not_  amusing! - she actually managed a weak laugh, though it was choked by pain and wet with the blood in her lungs. "Good to see... you're okay. Ish."

For just a moment, an odd shaft of warmth pierced his cold fury. Still so concerned for him, even through all of her pain. "Dylan..."

The hand that was not black with bruises and twisted by violence reached out and lightly touched the prince's wrist, near the half-healed iron burn. Tears dripped slowly from the corners of her eyes to soak the blood-stained blanket beneath her. That gentle touch burned hotter than iron. Her wobbly smile hit him like a blow. "It's okay."

Nuada shoved away from the bed. He could not bear to see the relief in her eyes. Could not bear to see her attempting to comfort him when she lay battered and bleeding among the blankets. And maybe if he left her, she would no longer desire to chatter on like a magpie. Maybe Eamonn's words would not echo in his skull like a curse.

The prince took two steps and stumbled. His feet suddenly felt strangely large and heavy. He tried to walk on. Staggered. Fell to his knees.

_ "Brother!" _

The wound in his side burned and throbbed, as if someone were thrusting hot needles into his side.  _More poison_ , he thought fuzzily as the world began to fade. He heard his sister yell his name, and Wink roaring for one of the healers. And as he slipped into unconsciousness, he prayed, for the first time in a long time, that Dylan would survive. His honor demanded it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> \- Gwydion is from Welsh mythology, a comrade of King Math of Wales, who had to keep his feet in the lap of a virgin when not in battle (I don't know why). Gwydion's sister was the 2nd virgin selected.  
> \- Sreng was champion of the Fir Bholg in Irish myth. When the Fir Bholg went to war against the Tuatha dé Danann in the First Battle of Mag Tuiredh (fighting for governance of Ireland) Sreng was chosen to fight King Nuada. The Fir Bholg are not Fomori (though they may be related; that isn't clear in mythology). The Fomori were already in Ireland when the Fir Bholg arrived. Another name for them is the Children of Dela.  
> \- Claiomh Solais: one of the 4 Treasures of the Tuatha dé, the Sword of Light, or Sword of Victory. The others include the Cauldron of the Dagda, the Spear of Lugh, and the Stone of Fal. The sword is also called the Sword of Nuada.  
> \- A dirk is a Scottish dagger, one-edged, about a foot long (sometimes it's a cut-down sword blade on a dagger hilt). Many Scottish dirks have a smaller eating knife in a compartment on the sheath. The hilts are usually carved from dark wood like ebony or bog oak, and the pommel is set with a cairngorm stone. Usually also worn with a smaller Scottish knife known as a sgian dubh, worn tucked into the top of the hose when wearing a kilt.  
> \- A sword-breaker is a sturdy dagger with slots on one side like the teeth of a comb. Those teeth can catch the blade of an opponent's sword and hold it, giving the dagger-wielder a chance to counter-attack. It's uncertain whether they can actually break a sword, but that's what they were called. A type of weapon known as an off-hand weapon one to be used in conjunction with a single-hand sword.  
> \- The Fir Bholg were the fourth group to live in Ireland (after the Nemedians and before the Tuatha dé).  
> \- Tylwyth Teg here means just a Welsh faerie.  
> \- The Spear of Light is another name for the Spear of Lugh, one of the four Treasures of the Tuatha dé. However, we're not going to call the Spear the Spear of Lugh for a reason that will be revealed later. It's exciting, I promise. In this fic, both the Sword and the Spear will change size depending on the wielder. This was inspired by the sword in the book the Kingdom of Kevin Malone. Kevin's sword can go from being a pocket knife to a full-out broadsword.  
> \- Brighid is the goddess of the hearth, of fire, poetry, and smith-craft. She also has two sisters, also named Brighid (weird). Her father is the Dagda (similar in some ways to Odin, Thor, or other All-Father gods) and she is the wife of Bres, the Fomorian. That's not quite the history she'll get in this fic if she shows up (since Bres will)... at least, not so far as I've plotted. But maybe.  
> \- There are only a few instances in literature I've read where a brownie goes boggart (meaning, gets super ticked of) but in most of them, the brownie uses their powers to throw stuff and break things. I figure something that can throw a kitchen full of pots and kettles could be useful in a fight.  
> \- Wink growing his skin back is inspired by the character Orc in Michael Grant's Gone novels (really awesome books, but not if you're squeamish).  
> \- I got that jaw-shot from Terrier, by Tamora Pierce. Beka, the MC, uses it to knock someone out (she's a cop, and isn't supposed to kill people).  
> \- Briton is an old name for Britain. The longsword is generally European, as it was used in a variety of places, but the Scots and Irish normally used claymores and shorter swords. Long swords (not the longsword, but longer swords) were normally used by the aristocracy.  
> \- Swiving is another word for screwing, an old word from like, the 18th century and earlier.  
> \- The hanbō is a 35-inch wooden staff used in Japanese martial arts. It could totally break someone's bones, as it was often used as a defense weapon against the katana, the famous Japanese sword.  
> \- Okay, I didn't get the "arms or legs?" scene from anywhere, but it does bear a striking resemblance to this one scene in Queen of the Darkness by Anne Bishop. In that book, one of the secondary characters gets poisoned, and there's no cure. But the MC can draw the poison out of either her arms or legs, which will pretty much cripple whichever limbs she decides to sacrifice. So before they start, the MC leans in and asks the girl, "Arms or legs?" But that wasn't an inspiration for that situation. I just think those crappy, have-to-choose-between-two-agonizing-torments scenes are good.  
> \- The thing about denying your God. Latter-Day Saints (and I'm pretty sure Christians in general) aren't supposed to deny being Christian for any reason whatsoever, even upon pain of death and stuff. Now, IMHO (and from what I understand from church), if you lack the strength to be able to hold fast in that kind of situation, you won't be asked to do it. But Eamonn knows she's not supposed to do that, and he's just screwing with her mind.


	4. Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dylan and Nuada heal from Eamonn's treachery, King Balor seeks to find a way to use their strange relationship to his advantage...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: instances of blood, mentions of torture, instances of physical sibling abuse and emotional parental abuse, racism, mentions of war, emotional issues, mental illness, physical pain, religion, emotional sibling abuse, hints of obsessive love, anger management issues, and depression.
> 
> Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon is a book written by Lisa Goldstein that melds English fairy and folktales with Christopher Marlowe's London (Christopher Marlowe is a famous English playwrite - is that how you spell that? - from before dinosaurs walked the earth. He wrote Faust). I used this title because if Balor, being all golden and stuff, is the sun, and Nuala (being all pale and serene) is the moon, then this marriage plot of theirs is certainly a strange and scheming device. I dunno, I thought it fit. And it's pretty. I love pretty book titles.

  1. **Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon**



**that is**

**A Short Tale of Healing, Enemies, Idle Hands, a Princess Who Cannot Believe and Plots Accordingly, and a Prince Who Makes a Choice**

.

.

It felt as if she were floating on silver clouds or flying between the stars. Pinpricks of light swirled across her vision. She heard someone speaking, as if from very far away, and a sound like a boar snuffling through forest underbrush. There was something wrong with her chest. It felt heavy, as if someone were pressing very hard on it. Her lungs wouldn't expand all the way. When she tried to force them, a sharp lance of pain speared her through the chest. She tried to draw breath. Couldn't. Coughed hard. Felt like her chest was ripping in half. Tasted copper on her tongue.

"She is fading," a far-off voice snapped. "There is too much blood. We must clear her lungs.  _Quickly!_ "

Dylan felt hands pushing and prodding her. Was she on her back? She couldn't feel her body to tell. But then how could she feel the people poking at her?  _Elven healers,_ she remembered.  _Is that their magic shoving me around?_

A slight pressure on... what part of her was that? Slowly her body was coming back to her. The human could feel her toes and fingers tingling with fading numbness. As the pins and needles eased, she realized that it almost felt as if someone were holding her.

There was a strange sucking sensation and the heaviness surrounding her lungs began to ease. That strange feeling of being surrounded by light and warmth slowly faded, leaving behind a feeling of security and peace. Even as the healers continued battering her body with their magic – and that was exactly what it felt like, as broken bones realigned and shoved back into place, as bruises darkened by old blood were blown back to health with Elven power – she felt as if someone were cradling her with pure love.

_Who's holding me?_  She wanted to ask, but she still couldn't feel her face to move her mouth.  _Who is that?_  Peace unfolded in her chest and it was almost as if someone were whispering  _I am here._ She knew this presence... this Presence...

_No one is holding you, Dylan_. A familiar voice, musical and silvery and very, very kind, distracted her. Princess Nuala.  _The healers are working to draw the blood from your lungs. One of the healers is repairing your broken ribs. That is what you feel. Only the healing._

_No, that's not it. Be quiet, I can't think,_  the human wanted to protest. It wasn't just in her chest, it was everywhere. It felt nice, familiar as the back of her own eyelids. But the princess was still talking, distracting her, and tiredness crept closer, adding to her confusion. Did she dare sleep? What if this wasn't real tiredness, but death? What if, by letting oblivion take her, she were giving herself up to dying?  _I should fight to live... shouldn't I, Heavenly Father? People need my help. The Pobel Vean... and John... the kids at work..._   _Nuada..._

_It is all right to rest, Dylan,_  Nuala said. Her voice was very... Dylan almost couldn't figure it out. Tender? Why would an Elf princess feel tenderly towards her, of all people? And couldn't the Elf be quiet for five minutes so she could figure out what was happening? The combination of magic and mental chatter made her feel drugged and slow.  _If you sleep, the healing will progress more quickly. Do not fear._

Exhaustion washed over her, dark waves of tiredness breaking against her mind like ocean surf. She felt the Elves moving her around, felt them poking and prodding her body, but whatever warmth surrounded her didn't diminish in any way. Her mind sluggishly tried to process that. Tried to think. Who was it?  _What_ was it? The warm, familiar feeling was very gentle and subtle.

Then, a sudden realization.

_Oh._ Feeling slightly dumb, she actually smiled. Or thought she did. With her face numb, she wasn't sure if she was physically smiling or not.  _It's the Spirit. I'm sorry. Thank You for being here with me. I feel way better now. Like, a lot better. Though kind of stoned. For some reason I thought it might have been Nuada,_  Dylan thought, drifting. Fading. Sliding almost fully into sleep.  _Not Nuada, though. Better._ More sleepily still,  _Though I kinda wish it had been him. I hope he's all right. I hope..._  A momentary flash of panic. One of the healers barked something about her blood.  _Did Eamonn... Nuada... is he dead? Did he make it? Heavenly Father..._

A deep sense of peace and safety flowed into her as the panic faded, replaced by that same familiar warmth in her chest. No more pain, no more fear. Everything would be all right. Everything was fine. If she died, then... well, it was time. She had done what she was meant to do in this life, and now she could finally come home. At least it wouldn't hurt, which had been more than she could say before falling unconscious. But Nuada? If he died, then that was what Heavenly Father wanted for him this night. If he survived, then  _that's_ what God wanted. Either way, all would be well. But if she died and he lived, or he died and she lived, she would miss him.

_I just wish I could have seen him... talked to him... thanked him... one last time..._

Then she knew no more.

**.**

Princess Nuala stared at the human slumbering peacefully in the large, open bed, a childlike smile on her scarred face. She'd been under the healing sleep since Thursday night; nearly two full days. Now that the healers had reduced the swelling in the mortal woman's body from Eamonn's blows, Nuala could see the myriad of thick and thin raised lines criss-crossing Dylan's face. Nuala knew they were the result of the attack that had brought her brother and the human together. In reading the mortal's thoughts, the princess had seen that she wanted to keep the disfiguring scars, despite the way they twisted the otherwise pretty features into something lopsided and ugly.

_Why?_  Nuala wondered.  _Why does she choose to bear such scars?_ The pink and white and silver puckered lines slashed across cheeks and forehead, across eyes and nose, even across what would have been a generous, full-lipped mouth. One scar dragged at the mortal's eye, forcing it into a somewhat lopsided position. Another pulled cruelly at the corner of her mouth. Her nose was also crooked, with a flat space along the bridge.  _She must have broken it once_   _or twice._ Yet she has never attempted to rectify these disfigurements.  _Is that how she won Nuada's heart?_

"No mortal could ever steal my heart from you, Sister." Nuada's voice was cold, yet strangely tender as he limped slowly into the room. Wink shambled behind him, peering over Nuada's head to catch a glimpse of the sleeping human. "You are my twin, my other half. Do not fear – my love and loyalty are ever yours."

The Elf princess shuddered at the intensity of her brother's voice. The seeds of madness were still rooted deep within him. Yet as much as she wanted to deny it, Nuada spoke the truth. They  _were_  two halves of the same whole, two sides of the same coin. They were lost without the other. And there were none who could ever take his place in Nuala's heart. He was her only brother; her only sibling. She loved him more than almost anything. But that did not mean she was comfortable around him. Not anymore, at any rate.

_Don't give up on him. Everyone has trials they must face. He is one of yours, and you are one of his. It will work out eventually._

Dylan's words from two nights past reverberated through Nuala's mind as she watched her brother struggle to walk. Bandages swathed his torso – mementos from the flogging, and Eamonn's final dagger strike. The bandage over Nuada's side was stained with a small spot of dark golden blood. The princess could not help but admire the way her brother, even injured, moved so gracefully.  _She_  did not move so, even with her Elven poise. It was his martial arts training that gave him such fluidity, and she envied him that.

The dim light of the setting sun painted the undyed linen trews Nuada wore with all the colors of twilight and fire as he came toward her. The Elven warrior stopped at Dylan's bedside beside his twin.

"Are you so sure of that, Brother?" Nuala asked in flowing Old Gaelic. There was a softness in him suddenly that made her bold. "You fought very hard to save the human. You nearly died... could it be for the sake of love? You suffered a flogging to preserve her honor–"

"To preserve my own honor, Nuala, do not be revolting," Nuada snarled. His words were like a slap. The princess stepped back from him, amber eyes wide as she scanned his suddenly furious countenance. Every ounce of tenderness had vanished, leaving only icy fury behind. "She is a human. Nothing she ever does will ever erase that fact. To imply I could feel such emotion for a mortal insults my honor, insults everything I am!" Realizing he was shouting, he lowered his voice to an earnest and angry murmur. "The creature in that bed is an ally,  _barely_. But affection, friendship, or the gods forbid,  _love_  – that is beyond one such as her."

"Yet you cried out her name while under the hands of the healers," Nuala snapped back. How could she have been so stupid as to believe a human? To believe that a mortal who had known her brother for scarcely eleven moons could understand him better than Nuala herself? Idiocy. "You feared for her life! Prayed for her survival! A  _human's_ survival!"

Nuada fought against the impulse to jerk back from his sister. She was throwing these things in his face to shame him. He could feel the burn of her contempt and anger through their bond. Yet it did not matter that she claimed he had done such a thing – he knew it to be a lie. Never in this life or any other would he, Prince Nuada, son of the mighty King Balor, the legendary Silverlance, call out the name of a mortal in sleep, save as a cry of triumph whilst dreaming of slaying his enemies. He had not dreamt of silver-washed blue eyes, so very fey in that mortal face – blue eyes framed with dark lashes and scars, eyes vacant in death. He had not dreamt of Eamonn rising up from above the human where she lay in Nuada's own bed, the dark Elf's naked body spattered red by Dylan's blood, the mortal already cold with death brought on by Eamonn's twisted lust. No,  _no,_ ** _no!_**  He had not suffered nightmares of failure, of shame, of grief. He had  _not_ cried out her name!

"I feared for a stain on my own honor and  _nothing_  more," he snapped, shoving aside the horror and sickness coiling in his belly. "If she died, if Eamonn managed to slay her, then I would have been disgraced, for I owe Dylan a debt. Eamonn would have succeeded in shaming me, but that doesn't mean I feel anything for Dylan except–"

"Dylan?" Nuala said sharply. "You call her by name, instead of simply 'the human,' yet you claim you feel nothing for her. I think you are lying, Brother. I think you love the human-"

"I could  _never_  love a human, Nuala! The very thought is absolutely disgusting! A fae and a human together in such a way... the very idea offends everything I stand for. How dare you even imply that I could sink so low as to lust after a filthy mortal wench-"

The crack of Nuala's palm across his face echoed in the room. Wink growled. Dylan stirred, but did not awaken. And Nuada did not turn the face that had been forcibly jerked to the side by his sister's slap. Where the slender hand had struck first turned shockingly white, even against the paleness of his skin, then flooded with a rush of blood that turned the handprint a pale yellow. Both Elves heaved furious breaths in and out as the tension stretched taut between them. Rage and disbelief radiated from the furious princess. Nuada fought against the sting of hurt in his chest that mirrored the burn in his cheek. Nuala had never,  _ever_  slapped him over mere words before. All the hope that had built up within him during the fight against Eamonn and his men, hope fueled by the renewed connection between him and his twin, shattered into jagged pieces.

Nuala's face stung, but she did not regret striking her brother. How  _dare_ he say such things? All of Nuada's prejudices, all of his hate and disdain, all of the darkness twisting around inside him – it was all still there. The mortal had been wrong about the Elf prince. He did not deserve another chance from his sister, or anyone else. Preserving his honor? He had lost it centuries ago. He could never regain it again. She had been a fool to entertain hope that it could be otherwise.

"The human spoke your praises, Brother. Defended you with her own lips. She told me I should give you another chance. That you would prove me wrong. I regret that it is the mortal who was wrong about you. You will never understand honor. The shame you bring upon yourself is far too dark a stain on your soul." And the princess turned on her heel and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Nuada did not touch the cheek his sister had struck. He feared his hand would tremble, and if it did, he did not wish to see it. He only turned to stare at the mortal still sleeping on the bed.  _His_  bed. Her dark curls spread across his pillow. Becan curled up atop another of the plump pillows, snoring softly. A small guardian for his brave mistress. Brighid slept beside the snoring brownie. One of Dylan's pale hands, kissed a faint blue from bruises even after the healing, lay palm up atop the silver bed linens. The healers had believed it best not to move her after the healing. Before it, there had been no time. So now a mortal infected his bed with her human stench yet again as she slept off the magic used to knit her body back together. A body battered and broken in her attempt to save his life yet again.

_She spoke your praises... defended you with her own lips..._ Lips that, according to Eamonn, tasted of honeyed mead and strawberries. Lips that felt like paradise. Mortal lips.

"You will want some ice for that," Wink rumbled. When Nuada sliced his eyes to the troll, Wink gestured to the blood-gold mark on the prince's face. "Your sister has always had a strong arm. And your mouth is bleeding."

Nuada touched a ginger finger to his mouth. The tip came away dotted by a tiny drop of blood. "A strong arm... and a sharp tongue. Always has."

"The princess does not understand," the troll replied calmly. He pretended not to hear the slight undercurrent of grief in Nuada's voice. Wink had long ago lost his respect and love for the Elf princess he'd once saved as a little girl. "One day she will, though. Of that, I am certain." He hoped.

"For now, my friend, you need not stay here. Go to the Goblin and Troll Markets, the Floating Night Markets, and the township of Findias. Keep your ear to the ground, and find out what our people are saying about me, about Dylan... about two nights ago. And about Eamonn."

Wink rumbled agreement and left with a shuffling of his large feet and a clank of his mechanical hand. The door slammed shut behind him.

"I am trying to sleep," a drowsy voice mumbled from the bed. "If you don't mind, whoever you are." Nuada strode toward Dylan's recumbent form. Dark lashes fluttered as she opened her eyes and strove to focus on his face. The moment she did, she smiled warmly, then her eyebrows drew down sharply. "What happened to your face?" She pushed up on her elbows, then her hands. The bedclothes slid down to pool around her waist. To Nuada's surprise – and by the sharp ache in his chest, he realized it was also to his disgust – she wore one of his shirts. "Are you okay? What on earth happened?"

"Nothing. It is well enough," the prince said softly. Moments out of an enchanted sleep and though her first thought was tiredness, her second thought was for him. His stomach churned as he thought yet again that this human was so very strange. And she wore one of his shirts! A blue one woven with silver threads. It very much resembled the color of her eyes, in fact. Nuada knew his sister had done that on purpose, though he could not understand why. "And you? How do you fare?"

"I feel absolutely splendid, thank you so much. I can actually draw a full breath." She sucked in a deep one, smiling when her chest didn't scream in protest. "My leg feels fantastic, too. Hasn't felt this good since before I broke my knee. And this is  _the_  softest bed I've ever been in. Smells like pine needles; I  _love_  it. So, where am I, exactly?"

"My bedroom," he said. She went white as skimmed milk. Nuada saw wisps of memory in her eyes – hands choking, the silver-bright pain of a knife slicing across her face, bones breaking under vicious blows, flesh tearing as men ripped into her body. Even sitting, Dylan swayed with the memory. Her face went completely ashen. "The healers thought it unwise to move you," the prince added hastily, then had to quash the surge of fury when he realized he felt he ought to explain to her. But her color was slowly returning to normal. "I have slept in one of the nearby guest suites."

Ridiculous, that he should be barred from his own suite! The entire court of Bethmoora believed he was trysting with the girl anyway – repulsive thought – so why not allow him entry?

"Oh... thank you, Your Highness."

"It was not my decision," he snapped, then mentally swore when she flinched and looked down. It was almost as if the last months of visits, of reading and talking in front of a warm fire, had never happened. Back was the frightened woman who had first resided with him in his underground sanctuary.

_And_ , he realized,  _my prejudices have returned as well. Here I stand, intent on always thinking ill of her_   _when she has proven herself again and again to me. Because of the rumors? Because of Nuala's verbal barbs? Or because no one will tell me what Eamonn did to her? Has the base creature succeeded in shaming me... and hurting Dylan?_

The Elven warrior fought to gentle his voice. "But you are welcome. I hope..." He had to clench his teeth around the words. "I hope you find the bed comfortable. Do your injuries pain you at all?"

The human shook her head. Her smile wobbled a bit, but at least it was there. "I think they pretty much got everything when they healed me." She studied her hands for a moment, then wrapped her arms around herself. Nuada frowned. Had she lied about her injuries? "It was a pretty unique experience," the human continued. "I'm grateful to you and your sister, Prince Nuada."

"And... and you..." He wanted to ask her about Eamonn. Ask if the dark Elf had succeeded in fulfilling his vicious promises. Or if the Elf had only managed to commit rape and the brutal tortures he'd shown Nuada using merely his telepathic abilities, not physically. Ask if his own honor remained intact. He wanted to know if she were afraid of him. Did she still, in unguarded moments, look at him with that odd affection in her eyes? The affection that had grown in the last months as they sat before a crackling fire and she read her favorite tales to him, was it still there? Or was there condemnation and hate in her gaze? And yet he did not want to ask at all. Was almost afraid to know.

Silver-washed blue eyes found his. He didn't know it, but she saw the fear and uncertainty in his gaze. Dylan smiled – a real smile that seemed to light up her scarred face. Something inside the Elf prince eased. "The princess put a magical block around my mind. I know what Eamonn did – or tried to make me think he did, rather – but the emotional response isn't there. She said my mind wouldn't be able to handle it right now, but that it will slowly come back to me over time. When I'm ready. It's okay, though. I'm okay. You came after me so fast, he didn't have time to really hurt me. Thank you, Your Highness."

"He nearly killed you!" Nuada growled, turning away from her. The gratitude in her eyes was all too sincere. He deserved none of it. "You insult me, and yourself, with such ill-aimed gratitude. And if you ever give yourself up that way for me again, I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that I will-"

"I know," she said, and the sudden surge of fury that flared in him subsided. There was a wealth of things silently acknowledged but left unsaid in those two simple words:  _I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt you, watching you die was more than I could bear_. For a minute he simply turned away from her, struggling to make his breathing even.

When he turned back to her, she added, "Your Highness... my prince... Nuada. I'm  _all right_. It was just a concussion and some broken bones." At his look, she added, "Okay, so my broken rib punctured a lung. Healers fixed me right up. Same with my head." She touched the back of her head carefully, smiling when it didn't hurt. "And they didn't even cut my hair. Gotta appreciate that – in a human hospital, something like that, they'd have shaved me bald. I spent the last three years growing out my hair, so that would have been really annoying for me. I truly am grateful for all of this. Without you coming to my rescue, I..." He saw the first shimmer of tears clinging to her lashes, reflecting the moon-swept blue of her eyes. But she blinked them away quickly. "We would have had a repeat of the night we met, minus the part where I actually survived.  _You_ saved me from that. So I thank you."

"You..." He turned away from her, unable to meet her gaze. He could not say what his honor demanded of him if he had to look into those fey-like eyes. "You saved  _me,_  as well. I... I thank you."

Dylan shrugged. "You're the closest thing I have to a real best friend in this world, besides John. That's what friends do for each other. Right? Now, am I wearing actual clothes? Because I'd like to get up, but if I'm wearing a see-through nightgown or something, I don't want to get out of bed with you standing right there."

Forcing his thoughts away from her sentiments of (bizarre, ridiculous thought) friendship – and the thought of her wearing a transparent anything, which made something akin to nausea bubble in the pit of his stomach – the prince thought for a moment. "That shirt is one of mine. It should fall at least midway to your knees."

The human sighed. "Not long enough. Is there a... a robe or something? I'd use the blanket or something as a toga, but this isn't my place and I'd feel rude about doing that. Still..." She glanced down uneasily at herself. "Mid-thigh is  _way_  too short."

"Most humans seem to rejoice in showing as much skin as possible."

"Yeah, well, my body is a temple. Word of Wisdom and stuff. No smoking, no drinking alcohol, no drugs, no addictive substances – even if they  _are_  legal – and no flaunting myself and what sex appeal I possess (which is like, none) for the admiration of other people. It's like it says in one of my favorite songs: I don't need to prove my beauty in the eyes of men. Or anyone else in this world, come to think of it." Now she shrugged, and smiled as if all her dreams had come true. "I only care about the opinion of the most important person in my life."

Nuada blinked. She could not mean...  _him?_  Or perhaps she had a lover? No, she was a Christian. She followed the High King of the World. Women who devoted themselves to that royal God did not find physical release outside of the bonds of marriage. Or at least claimed not to. A husband, then? A strange feeling swelled in his belly and he turned away from her again, staring resolutely at the smooth marble wall. "And..." He had to quietly clear his throat before he could go on. "And who is that? This person whose opinion matters so very much to you?"

"God," she said simply. "As long as I live the way He wants me to, He thinks I'm the best thing since sliced bread." Nuada opened his mouth, and Dylan added, "Of course, He thinks that about anyone who's living their life right, but it always makes me feel good, because I'm my own flavor."

The prince, for the first time since that final night in Dylan's cottage, found himself laughing. And when Dylan cried, "Stop laughing at me, you...  _Elf_ ," he could only laugh harder, even though it hurt.

**.**

Eamonn knelt before his master, eyes focused on his lord's crest inlaid in precious and semi-precious stones on the black marble floor. Silver eyes traced the diamond sails of the moonstone ship that seemed to glide across the dark marble. Dark volcanic glass in the shape of a rearing, bat-winged horse was the only thing to mar the glittering beauty of the sails. A single ruby served as the horse's cyclopean eye. A ring of purest gold - not Elven gold, but the ancient gold from ere the days when mortal men walked the Green Isle - circled the luminous ship. The dark-haired Elf focused on this and nothing else as he waited for his master to speak.

"She offered her life for his?" His master demanded.

"Yes, Majesty," Eamonn replied. "Three times - once when she came before the Bethmooran king without summons, once when she asked that Silverlance be unchained, and once more when she came out to me in exchange for the antidote to the poison I gave him."

"Then she loves him," the other Elf replied. "Only love makes someone that stupid. A mortal loves Nuada Silverlance."

"And he loves her, Your Majesty. I am sure of it. He may still live in denial of it," Eamonn added, thinking with disgust of the look that had flashed in the crown prince's eyes when the mortal had attempted to stare Eamonn down - pride mixing with the haze of pain, and something that the dark Elf knew full well to be love. "But if so, his heart is torn between his so-called honor and his desire to roger the human slut. Otherwise he would not have undergone a flogging and risked death simply to preserve her honor. And you should have witnessed how he battled for her. He fought like a demon, Sire. I would stake my life on it: he is in love with the human."

"You know Our plans," his master replied. The use of the royal plurality was not lost on the dark-haired Elf. "When Silverlance finally finds the third piece of the Golden Crown, and he awakens the Golden Army and massacres the humans, then would be the opportune time to strike at him." Eamonn looked up and opened his mouth to protest, but the golden-haired warrior seated on the granite throne before him held up a hand for silence. "But if it were possible to tear the heart from his chest now, We would sanction it. If it were possible to weaken him,  _truly_  weaken him, in any way, then We would reward any who did so. Poison, bloodshed, maiming... or by the breaking of his immortal heart. Would her death do this?"

"I believe so, Majesty. After what happened to Queen Cethlenn... yes, I believe so."

"Then when the time is right, do what you threatened - use her until she is too damaged to be used any further. Make it brutal. Make her beg for death. Project every moment of it into the prince's mind, and make sure you can project her fear and pain and despair as well. Let him know and feel every bloody detail of what you will do to his woman, to the other half of his soul. Let him understand that, just as he could not save his precious mother, he would never have been able to protect his woman. And then kill her - very,  _very_ slowly."

"How, Sire? How do you wish it done?"

The faerie king grinned. "Cut her into little pieces and send them to our rash princeling in a box."

"That would steal the very heart from him," Eamonn breathed, already relishing the idea. "Steal it, and shatter it into a thousand jagged pieces."

"Indeed it would, Eamonn," the warrior king said from his stone-gray throne. "Indeed it would."

**.**

"So how long are we stuck here?" Dylan asked some time later. Servants had come and left clothes for her – way fancier than what she'd gotten in Nuada's sanctuary. The human felt strange slipping into silk underthings. She'd have rather had her own underpants, but the healers had thrown her bloodstained clothes away.  _I'm probably going to get a wedgy from this,_ the mortal mused,  _but at least they're pretty._  And what was even stranger – they matched the iridescent pearl shift and shimmery, midnight gown the servants had also given her. A silver girdle and shoes completed the outfit.

_My feet are going to sweat like racehorses in these shoes,_  Dylan thought, nibbling her bottom lip.  _Then they'll stink and I won't be able to give them back!_

"King Balor has not given me leave to go as yet," Nuada said. The human and the Elf were moving toward the palace kitchens, Nuada scowling and Dylan glancing every so often at the beauty and splendor of the architecture and decor. The mortal walked with ease thanks to the painkilling medicine Becan had brought her. The brownie sat on the human's shoulder, peering around with wide, sloe-black eyes. "As for you... you may leave whenever you wish."

"I go when you go, Your Highness," she replied. "In case they try to pull anything else. Your dad made it clear that he likes me, but I don't think the same can be said of you, which is ridiculous since you're like, the greatest thing since the invention of French toast, but whatever. And Eamonn can't be the only idiot Elf around here – present company obviously excluded. Every species has its percentage of blockheads, unfortunately."

"Yes, and unfortunately, that percentage seems to eclipse the majority of the human race."

If the Elf prince had expected outrage on humanity's behalf, or even mild disagreement from the mortal at his side, he was sorely disappointed. After a moment of silence, the human sighed heavily and replied, "I'm working on it."

_I did not mean you,_ he started to say, then shut his mouth. He was the crown prince of Bethmoora. He owed no one an explanation, much less a common-born mortal woman. Instead, he replied, "You do not dispute the fact that humans are stupid."

"Nope," she said as they came to the servants' doors to the kitchens. "I know most people are dumb, unfortunately. Either they're uneducated, or they don't think about things. The people at the institution - the nice ones - always told me that reading and learning were some of the most important things a person could do. Reading is what helped me learn more about your people. It helped keep me sane in the institutions. But lots of people don't read. In fact, my sister Petra's husband seems proud when he says, 'I don't read.' And I always wonder when he says that, what the difference is between someone who can't read, and someone who can but chooses not to."

Nuada paused before pushing through the door. He watched Dylan's face, saw the way her brows furrowed in a frown. How rarely she frowned, he realized. Even this one curved the corner of her mouth, to make it more of a lopsided smile. She always seemed to be smiling when he looked at her, even when afraid.

An echo of memory then, of sadness and fear in silvery blue eyes and a trembling smile on scarred lips as she confessed to him how frightened she really was. Practically on the heels of that confession the human had walked out of the room and offered her life to save his.

The Elf prince shook his head once to clear it of such sentimentality and demanded, "Well? What  _is_ the difference between someone who can't read, and someone who can but chooses not to?"

With a sad smile -  _always a smile,_  he marveled.  _How does a human, a creature with tainted bloodlines and a hole in its heart, strive always to smile?_  - the mortal said, "There isn't one." And she pushed the door open.

Immediate chaos. People called to each other through billowing steam and wisps of smoke. Spoons clanged against pots and kettles. Kitchen fires crackled and roared. Dylan smiled wider when she heard the familiar  _thwok-thwok-thwok_  of someone chopping vegetables nearby. Heavy bread dough slapped a counter with a dull  _whump._  Somewhere from within the riotous din came the steady creaking of a spit turning a heavy piece of meat.

"Why do you want to be in here?" Nuada demanded.

"I want to help," she said. "You're stuck here until your dad says we can go, right? And I'm not going anywhere without you, Your Highness, so I might as well be useful. Consider it a thank you for taking such good care of me. Besides, I like doing this kind of thing."

And that was another thing! The mortal was injured, or had been. Surely her convalescence gave her an excuse to stay abed and rest, relax. Enjoy the beauty and wonder of the Elven castle around her. Yet, as in his sanctuary, she sought work. Dylan had asked him in her quiet yet arresting way if she could go down to the kitchens and offer her services there. She didn't expect to be allowed to actually  _cook_ anything, she said (especially since most of what was cooking would be for the Samhain feast tonight and was being prepared only by the most senior cooks), but she could chop vegetables, or stir something, or pull things from the oven when they were ready. She would even wash dishes if that was all right.

"Your Highness!" At the high, almost shrill squeak, the kitchen chaos ground to a halt.

At first Dylan thought she was looking at a young child, maybe two years old, wearing a strange looking bib. Then she saw the faint silvering and realized she was looking at a very, very long beard. Not a child, but a very short male... something. It was impossible to see his clothes behind the huge black apron he wore. The lower half of the beard was tucked behind the apron at the creature's waist. The little man quickly swiped a long red hat off his head and swept his arms - and the hat - before him as he stooped into a low and reverent bow. The hat and the beard cinched it. Dylan knew exactly what he was - a kabouter, a Dutch house sprite.

"You honor the kitchens with your royal presence, Sire," the kabouter continued. "To what do we owe such a pleasure?"

"Greetings, Caspar," Nuada said, and Dylan realized he was actually smiling.  _He has a soft spot for this guy,_ the human realized. "Dylan, this is Caspar Kabouter, Master of the Kitchens. Caspar, allow me to present..." The prince trailed off, realizing that not only were many of the house sprites shy of humans, but that he did not know how to introduce the mortal at his side. But Becan, who has been quietly seated on his mistress's shoulder, slid down and bowed before the taller kabouter.

"If it pleases His Highness," and here Becan bowed to Nuada, "and Lord Master Caspar," bowing again to the Dutch sprite, "may I humbly present my esteemed mistress, a human of great courage, the Lady Dylan of... of..."

"Lady Dylan of Central Park," Nuada finished, amused despite himself. His Dylan, of mortal flesh and iron-laced blood, a lady? The thought was laughable. But Becan certainly did not lack courage. An angry kabouter could dump a vat of boiling water on something as small as a brownie intruding on that kabouter's demesne. Yet Caspar only blinked owlishly at the brownie and then looked to his prince for explanation. The prince explained, "Lady Dylan... dislikes having idle hands. She would offer her services in your kitchen." Nuada quickly explained what the human had in mind. Caspar blinked again.

"A mortal, Sire? A mortal lady? Wishes to work in our kitchens?"

"I can wash dishes," Dylan blurted out. "Or chop vegetables. Whatever you want me to do. I'll do anything."

"If you don't want her, Caspar, I'll take her," said another sprite, this one clad in brown and black homespun and holding a half-eaten bowl of porridge streaked with golden butter. He, too, had a very full beard, and only one eye in the middle of his forehead that glowed faintly green in the smoky dimness of the kitchen. He was twice the size of the kabouter; tall enough to hold out a four-fingered hand for Dylan's own. When she gave it to him, he dropped a kiss to her knuckles. "I am Nils Fjøsnisse, Lady, of His Majesty's royal stables."

"You're a tomte," Dylan said, and Nils beamed. His smile widened even further when she added, "You want me to muck out stables, don't you? I can do that, but you'll have to show me how. I've never had a horse, though I've ridden before."

"Oh, Highness," Nils said, laughing. "She is a treasure. A human willing to work? And willing to admit to needing to be taught! I'd not have believed it. But none here shall treat you as a lady while you work. A servant you will be."

The human shrugged, smiling. "Hopefully I can keep up."

" _Ja_ , she is a treasure. Quick, make up your mind, Caspar, before Jenny Hob comes in and snatches her up for maid duty!"

"You take her, Nils," Caspar said. "Get her some chore clothes and put her to work. Let her do the hard tasks in the morning. When she is tired, send her to me. She may wash dishes. We shall see if the job is not too hard for her."

The smile Dylan flashed at Nuada as Nils led her away left an odd feeling in the Elven warrior's belly. He was sending her to muck out stables, to scrub scummy watering troughs and clean dirty tack. Later she would scour grimy pots and kettles, scrub dirty floors, clean out greasy fire pits, and chop vegetables possessing fumes that made the eyes burn... and she smiled at him as if he had given her royal jewels. The prince did not understand.

"Is it true, Your Highness?" Caspar asked, dragging Nuada's attention back to the Dutch house sprite. "Is it true she is  _your_ lady? Will you wed her?"

Frowning, the prince shook his head and left the kitchens. What a ridiculous notion. The very idea was laughable. Not to mention disgusting.

**.**

Nuala bit back the rising tide of anger as she saw Dylan, sleeves rolled up and pinned so they held fast at her shoulders, elbows deep in greasy wash water, scrubbing out a grime-crusted kettle. Wearing cotton and leather, no less! And where were the silks and cashmeres Nuala had left her with?

The Elf princess had left the human with her brother for forty minutes, if that, and returned to find them both vanished. The crown prince of Bethmoora had been doing easy stretches in the salle, intent on building himself up to the point where he could hunt down Eamonn like a dog and cut his throat. Nuala knew her brother's so-called honor demanded the dark-haired Elf die a brutal death for embarrassing him, and the prince was not strong enough or fast enough or whatever else he thought he needed to be in order to take out the Elf that had tried to slay the entire royal family of Bethmoora.

Finding Nuada had been the easy part. But it had taken the princess hours to find the human. Jenny Hob, the head housekeeper, had suggested to the princess that the mortal might be in the stables. Some of the young stable tomte had been flirting with the house hobs and brownie lasses, and talked of the human singing cheerfully - if somewhat out of tune - as she mucked out stalls in the Royal Stables.

_Shoveling horse manure,_ Nuala thought furiously.  _Put to work as if she were a common servant, instead of my brother's savior. Nuada had a hand in this, I know he did. It is just like him._ And the tomte she'd found and interrogated had even said as much - that the human had been brought to the stables at the behest of the crown prince and Nils Fjøsnisse, head groom.  _Probably Nils was just doing what Nuada said, but I shall speak to_  him,  _as well._

But by the time the Elf princess had gotten there, Dylan had been nowhere to be found. Neither had Nils. And the search had begun again. Yet another couple of hours later, Nuala had been told by one of the kitchen kobolds that Caspar Kabouter had put "the prince's human" to work scrubbing dishes. And now here the princess found Dylan, in rough cotton tunic and leather trousers and boots, probably to avoid being burnt by flying drops of sizzling grease. Piles of dirty dishes towered around her. The Master of the Kitchens had clearly kept the largest pots and pans in reserve for the human, who towered over all the diminuitive kitchen staff by at least a foot. That was also no doubt at Nuada's order.

"What is the meaning of this?" Nuala demanded, and for the second time that day, everyone in the kitchen froze. Except Dylan. Her head - the hair tied up in a black cloth to protect it from the grime - was buried in the massive pot. The echoes of music drifted toward the princess as the human sang, " _Put your shoulder to the wheel, push along! Do your duty with a heart full of song!_ "

_Set to work as a veritable slave and still managing to be cheerful about it,_  Nuala thought.  _Poor girl. She must be besotted with my brother, if she cannot see him for what he truly is._  Aloud, keeping her tone friendly, she called, "Dylan! Stop scrubbing and come out of there. I have been looking for you."

The human pulled her head out of the kettle and peered over the massive black thing to find Nuala. Surprised, the mortal woman swiped at a trickle of sweat rolling down her face - it was  _hot_ in the kitchen - and smiled. "Hi. I mean, good afternoon, Your Highness. Are you looking for Nu- the prince?"

_She was about to call him Nuada,_ the princess realized.  _Is that how she thinks of him? Could she really care for him enough, be comfortable enough with him, to call him by name? And does my brother know of it? Encourage it? What can be his game regarding this human?_  Nuala frowned, a sliver of confusion and uncertainty piercing her chest. What if Nuada had not been trying to do something cruel to the human by setting her up in the stables and kitchens? Perhaps there was something here she did not understand. But what?

Well, whatever it was, it would have to wait. Her father had said he wished to see Dylan and Nuada just after sunset, which was approaching swiftly. "Come with me, Dylan."

"But... I'm in the middle... I mean..." The human glanced around, worry flashing in her gaze. Nuala's rage at her brother on Dylan's behalf returned. Was the woman looking for Nuada? Did she feel she needed his permission to leave her disgusting task? He had much to answer for, the prince. When would he stop hating mortals with such fire? The mortal in question was still looking distressed, which only fueled the heat of the princess's anger.

Caspar Kabouter came and peered inside the kettle. "It is good enough to stop. You are human, milady. You should rest some, so that you may enjoy the Samhain feast tonight. The help was well-meant and you have done more in your time here than any one of my kabouter or kobolds could have. Go with Her Highness."

Confused, a sense of worry burning at the base of her spine, Dylan nodded once and stood up, wiping her wet hands on the front of her shirt. She wanted to thank Caspar, but thanking most household faeries made them angry or drove them away. So she merely said, "If I'm still here the day after tomorrow, may I come back and help some more? I'd come tomorrow but it'll be the Sabbath."

"Of course," said the kabouter. The bell on his tall, red cap jingled merrily. "We would be most glad of such. Of course you may."

_Not if I have anything to say about it,_ Nuala thought. The moment the kitchen doors swung shut behind the Elf and the human, Nuala grabbed Dylan's arm - but not hard enough to hurt, never that - and began dragging her back toward Nuada's room. "I will beat my brother senseless for this."

_If Father does not beat me to the mark,_ she added, biting back the angry words demanding to be snarled.  _To believe we had thought Nuada possibly changed. Foolishness! If neither Father nor I could make him see sense, surely one of the mortals he despises so much could not. Father was absolutely right. The plan will have to be implemented. Gods' curse Nuada! I had hoped to spare Dylan this._

And she had, desperately. Pleading with King Balor had proved futile at first, but his daughter had had the wit to point out that using the human the way the king's plan called for would be deceitful, and thus dishonorable. The One-Armed King had not backed down entirely, but he had allowed that if Nuada's attitudes were changed, the plan could be put on hold. Nuala had pleaded for the plan to be abandoned completely - such a hasty scheme could prove disastrous - but the king would not capitulate. And that, along with Nuada's abuse of the courageous mortal who gave him her loyalty, left Nuala incensed. "I could  _strangle_ him!"

She did not know if she meant the king, or her brother. At this point, it hardly mattered.

"For what? What did he do?" Dylan demanded, shocked. The Elf princess was walking way faster than the human could easily keep up with. "Is it the clothes? I had prettier ones - real fancy and nice, thanks by the way - but Nils said that he thought I wouldn't want to get the dress dirty with straw and stuff in the stables, so I put on something else. Then when Nils was taking me to the kitchens, he made me change because there was crud on my clothes and I was going into the kitchen. It's not Nuada's fault, Your Highness, I promise."

"I am not speaking of clothes," the princess ground out from between her teeth. Dylan sighed. Clearly the two Elves shared more in common than just their moon-beam looks. Maybe they'd inherited that temper from their father.  _Figures,_ the human thought dryly.  _Angsty Panda Elf-Prince, Emo-Bear Elf Princess. Isn't that what the kids say these days?_

Nuala was still talking. "Putting you to work like a servant-"

"I wanted to help!" Dylan protested as they came to the door. Nuala waved her hand, and the golden bracelet on her wrist glowed briefly. The door swung open and the princess pulled the human inside. "Honestly, Your Highness, I had to convince the prince to let me in the kitchens. I just felt so useless just sitting around here not doing anything-"

"Nuada told you that was what you were doing, didn't he?" Finally letting go of the human, Nuala went to a chest that Dylan was almost positive hadn't been there when she'd left with Nuada for the kitchens that morning. The princess flipped open the lid and pulled out a long waterfall of sapphire blue material. "He told you that you were being useless, did he not?" She tossed the blue thing on the freshly made bed and pulled out another flowing thing, this time in beautiful pearl shades shot with gold thread. A smaller golden thing with silvery white laces came, too, followed by matching underthings. "Ugh, that brother of mine! I ought to box his ears, like when we were children!"

_Oh, crud, that's for_ ** _me_** _,_ Dylan realized when Nuala pulled out a pair of blue shoes.  _How many clothes are they going to give me? Do I have to wear the shoes? Can't I just keep the boots?_  The leather boots were much more comfortable than the silky slippers had been.  _And why is she so angry, anyway? Blargh. This is_ not  _going to end well._

"Um... what is all that stuff for?" Dylan asked, then winced when she saw that the eyes Nuala turned on her had darkened to a deep bronze threaded with crimson and sienna.  _Someone is_  ticked _. Question is, why?_ The human bit back a sigh as the princess made a motion for her to strip.  _At least it's another girl._ Dylan paused in the act of pulling her tunic over her head.  _Wait... does Nuala count as a girl? She's female, but... hmmm._

"My father has summoned you and Nuada to appear before him at first night and I find  _him_  working himself into a sweat in the salle and  _you_  scrubbing pots at his behest! Put on those clothes; you must be ready quickly."

"Why?" The human shimmied into fresh underclothes - not silk this time. What kind of material was this? - then pulled the pearly shift over her head. Hadn't she just been wearing a shift just like this before going to the stables?  _Except,_ she reminded herself,  _this one has sparkly gold threads._ She indulged in a mental eye-roll.  _Oh, baby. Talk about fancy._  "You said Nu- the prince is all sweaty. Won't he have to shower, or... I don't know, whatever?" Dylan paused. "Actually, Your Highness... don't  _I_  need to shower? I smell like horses and dirty dishes and tallow."

Nuala's eyes widened. "Yes! Quickly, strip!" Dylan sighed and hastened to obey. The princess shoved a then-naked Dylan through a door and into a bathing chamber. The glossy onyx walls twinkled with jewel chips - blue, purple, green, red, white and yellow burning so brightly that all looked like tiny stars against a clear night sky. A large, perfectly round tub of white marble sat in the center of the room. Small scoops in the flooring around the tub held silver candles dancing with light. Silvered glass made up the bathing room ceiling. When Dylan slid into the tub and obeyed Nuala's order to lie back and relax, she saw that the reflection in the glass made it seem as if she were inside the full moon on a starry night.

"Since I must fetch my brother, you have a little time to relax. But please do not delay in getting clean. Tonight is Samhain, and my father wishes to speak to you before the banquet this evening. There is soap and shampoo there." Nuala gestured, and two of the scoops in the floor, empty before now, filled with glimmering liquid. Silver sparkles twinkled in one scoop. In the other, gold swirls shimmered and shifted. "The silver is shampoo, the gold is soap." And the princess was gone.

For the first time since leaving Nuada's sanctuary, Dylan allowed herself to lie back and give herself up to the pleasure of yet another magical Elven tub.

_I love these things._ Then, realizing she hadn't seen her brownie in a while, she wondered,  _I wonder where Becan is?_

**.**

"Nuada!" The enraged princess called from the door of the salle. Her brother was  _not_ , as he had been last she'd seen him, doing stretches. In fact, he seemed well into a fourth - or was it possibly fifth? - hour of intense training. He moved through the varied and strenuous  _aikido_   _kata_ without weapons. Sweat glistened under the bright faerie lights hanging around the room. His face was tight with pain. There was fresh blood against the whiteness of his bandages.

For a long moment, Nuala could only stare at the way her brother moved so gracefully despite the fact that he was only just recovering from an assassination attempt and a flogging. Only Elven healing abilities and magic allowed him this much freedom of movement. The prince moved through the Japanese martial art form with power and brilliant speed, before flowing into the  _taolu_  for the slow and elegant  _t'ai chi ch'uan_  that he often employed to cool down. Nuala wished, not for the first time, that she had his warrior skills.

Then she remembered why she was there and her anger flared up again. She shouted, "Nuada! Do not ignore me! I would speak with you!"

The image of the prince blurred as he completed a triple flip in the air - showing off again, she knew, as flips were not used in the Chinese defense style - and landed in a crouch almost directly in front of her. When he stood, his gaze glistened as if with pain or fever. The Elven twins regarded each other with dark eyes for a long moment. The princess could see the fatigue on her brother's face, but the sparkle in his eyes kept her from softening toward him. She did not even wish to attempt discerning all the different, discomfitting emotions burning through their connection. Finally, when his sister made no move to speak, Nuada demanded, "Are you going to slap me again?"

"I ought to," Nuala hissed. She knew he could feel her anger pulsing darkly through their bond, and did not care. "For treating that woman as if she were your slave, when she saved your life numerous times at the risk of her own!"

Her brother blinked, and something Nuala could not name flickered in his firegold eyes. Something else shimmered through their connection, but was gone before she could identify it. Then his face was but a mask of boredom as he shrugged and turned away. "Sister, I have no idea what you speak of. What the mortal does is no concern of mine."

"She is barely recovered from her ordeal - an ordeal she went through  _for you_ , need I remind you, Brother! And you have her... mucking out stables and scrubbing dirty pots! Brother,  _why?_  Why do you insist on mistreating her? She has done nothing but try to protect and serve you. Tried to earn your regard. I would think you would be glad of a human treating you with such deference and obvious devotion. Instead you abuse her! Why?"

Throughout her tirade, Nuala had seen her brother's spine stiffen further and further, until it seemed as if his backbone had been replaced by an iron rod. Now, as she paused for his answer, the prince turned to her with that unnameable something smoldering in his eyes once more. He stalked toward her. Every movement rippled with menace. Fear uncoiled like an ice serpent in Nuala's belly as she retreated from him. The wall of the salle slammed hard against her back. Then her brother was upon her, both hands braced on either side of her head as he leaned in. He smelled of warrior's sweat and anger and something that might have been soul-pain. There was blood on his breath. His eyes gleamed with a thousand dark reproaches. Shivers raced up and down her back as he leaned further in.

" _Always_  I am the villain to you. You love me and loathe me with every breath, with every beat of your heart. Every moment I exist tortures and offends you, and you despise me for it. You have told me you believe I have no honor. You have told me I could never regain my honor if I tried. You refuse to prove your words by searching my thoughts. Thus I expect you would believe nothing I say in my own defense."

The Elf prince studied his sister's face. Never had she looked more beautiful, or more sad. But if he attempted to touch her now, in any way, attempted to comfort her, the revulsion and fury in her eyes would be worse than a knife to his heart. He knew she loved him. But he also knew she did not wish to, and that was worse than if she did not love him at all.

"You will not believe, but I will speak nonetheless. Dylan asked me to take her to the kitchens. She dislikes being idle, and wanted to help. She is a grown woman, if anything that has lived for less than three decades can be considered grown. She makes her own decisions. I did not send her to do anything. I did not force her. I do not abuse her. I..." Something wanted to force its way past the anger and hurt in his throat, wanted to unfurl on his tongue and spring off his lips. A declaration, an explanation of... he knew not what. But he bit it back, whatever it was. Instead he asked, "Must you always think ill of me, Nuala?"

Such hurt in her brother's voice now. Such grief and fury pulsing like the pain of a festering wound through their connection. She wanted so much to put her arms around him, to pull his head down on her shoulder and whisper that she loved him. He was her  _brother_. But she did not know where that would lead. And it did not matter that she loved him, even if her love made him more dear than food and water to her, more dear than the breath in her chest. Because brother or not, he was  _not_  more dear than her own honor.

"Always you prove yourself the villain, Brother," she said. "It is none of my doing. Only your own." Now the princess looked away. Nothing in the world could make her meet that tortured and desperate gaze any longer. "Father sends for you. He wishes to see you and Dylan, in a formal audience, at the first full moment of nightfall before the banquet tonight. He will make his decision about you both there."

Nuada pushed away from her, feeling as if his skin had been flayed anew, everything raw and painful. His chest ached and his belly clenched as he walked slowly away from the sister he loved so. The sister who was the other half of his heart, the sister who had once held his heart in her breast as he had held hers, when they were children long ago. They had been two sides of the same coin. Night and day, dark and light, winter and summer. Nuada and Nuala. What had happened to the two of them? How had they come to stand on opposite sides of this great chasm that now stood between them? Because things had changed between them. Somehow. Somewhen so long ago that he couldn't even remember it now.

Shades, he was tired of fighting the yearning. For centuries, for thousands of years, he had fought so much. Fought the desire to slaughter the humans down to every last man, woman, and child; fought the dark shroud of despair always at the edges of his existence, the despair that whispered that all who could aid him had long since abandoned him, including the gods; fought the desire to eschew honor and come to his father on his knees, begging for forgiveness, though he had committed no sins, and begging only to be loved by him again. He had to fight so many. Must he fight his heart forever as well? It was the only thing that could possibly give him a moment's true peace.

"Give me half an hour, Sister," he said calmly. No emotion leaked into his voice, or through the tight shield he kept around himself to prevent his sister from feeling the aching in his soul. Emotion he could hide from her, even some thoughts... but not for long. Not this close. He had to get away from her. "I will be ready then."

"Dylan will enter with you."

Surprisingly, the thought comforted him. The human who had always tried to protect him, who always welcomed him, would enter the king's presence at his side. Her foolhardy courage and desperation to protect the Kindly Folk would be helpful. Still, he would go robed not for war, but for execution, in white and black and silver. Nuada had lived for countless centuries. He knew that even a mortal's testimony might not be enough to sway an Elven king.

**.**

"I don't think I should be wearing this, Your Highness," Dylan mumbled, staring at herself in the mirror. The sight of her reflection, Nuala saw, had bleached some of the color from the human's scarred face. "I mean... this part." She pointed at the white léine, whose long skirt swirled around her ankles. Specifically she was indicating the black and silver embroidery in the form of the Eildon tree across her stomach.

Eildon, the tree of sacred hawthorne. Aiglin, the tree of sacred rowan. The Eildon tree for peace, the Aiglin tree for war. If Nuada has his way, the black and gold and crimson banner of the Aiglin tree would fly as the fey kingdoms made war on Man once more. And that was why they were doing this, Nuala reminded herself.

"Isn't this your family crest or something?" Dylan asked, breaking the princess from her thoughts.

"Indeed," Nuala replied, feeling another twinge of guilt. She swiftly quashed it. "But you are wearing my clothes, remember? All of my formal garments bear this symbol, and formal is what you must be to go before my father."

"Oh." The human stared at her reflection again, hardly recognizing herself in the beautiful clothes. The other clothes Nuada had given her, which had had a touch more of the Briton to them and were from a later time period, hadn't made her feel so... strange. "Is the brat necessary?" Dylan wasn't talking about an obnoxious child, but the Gaelic cloak of soft, fine black wool that Nuala had laid out on the bed for her to put on over her outfit. "Can't I have, like... a shawl or mantle or something? I don't know. I just feel... stupid."

"Do not feel thus," the princess said gently. "But if it discomfits you, we shall try this." From the chest that the princess had apparently stuffed with clothes to loan -  _hopefully not give,_  Dylan thought with an edge of desperation - to the human, Nuala pulled a sheer black mantle embroidered with beautiful, very intricate knotwork in glittering silver thread. "Would this be better?"

"Um..."  _Crud._  "I guess." Not that she would be comparable in any way to any of the court ladies, so why bother? Well, whatever.

By the time Nuala was done with her, Dylan felt like she'd been bulldozed over several times, but she looked like something out of a period film, which was what the princess had probably been going for. And thank everything under the sky, Nuala had given Dylan boots this time, in soft black leather with silver laces, instead of slippers that made her feet sweat. The final touch of silver to the outfit had been a braided rope girdle low on her hips. It felt like it was about to fall off every time she moved, but Nuala promised that they always felt like that.

Surprisingly, the beautiful Elf had done nothing to Dylan's hair. "Let it hang loose, like mine," the princess supplied when Dylan gave her a questioning look. "The Elven shampoo has made it so beautiful."

_Ouch,_  Dylan thought, then smiled inwardly.  _I don't think she meant it to sound like that, so whatever. She's right, anyway. It's not frizzy at all._

Nuala's last loan was a pendant, a black jewel set in silver on an impossibly delicate silver chain. On the back of the silver setting were the words  _A Ghrá_  and the symbol for eternity. Dylan showed the princess the engraving, asking what it meant. For some reason, she couldn't remember if the word was still part of the Gaelic language, or what it might mean.

"It is Old Gaelic," Nuala said briskly. "Come, it is nearly time."

_Well, I kinda_ knew  _it was Old Gaelic, Princess,_ the human thought, following her.  _I want to know what it_  says.

Trepidation began building in Dylan's chest as she hurried after the gliding princess. What would the king decide to do to Nuada? What would he do to her?  _Oh, Heavenly Father, I'm freaking out here. Help me be calm, please. Bless me with tranquility and peace. I faced down rape-minded gunmen, angry stag men, and Eamonn. I should be able to do this, but I'm having a panic attack. Help, please._

As the human prayed silently, a warmth flowed slowly but surely into her, easing some of the tension in her shoulders. That tension returned a thousandfold when she saw the Elf prince standing in front of the doors to the king's Hall.

_Whoa... we match._

And they did. Nuada wore a black silk tunic embroidered in silver over a white silk shirt, just like the embroidered black mantle over her own white léine. Two Eildon trees stood out against both mortal and immortal raiment, one in beautiful silver and black embroidery, the other in black-etched silvery metal. The only difference between them was that the prince's trews were black and the skirt of Dylan's léine was snowy white. They even both wore black leather boots, though only hers had visible laces. And around Nuada's throat was a silver chain and a single black stone, like a shard of midnight crystal.

Dylan knew as soon as the Elven warrior saw her that something was very wrong. She turned to Nuala, a question on her lips, and saw the fierce look on the princess's face as she gazed at her brother. The click as information came together in Dylan's head was almost audible.  _Oh, boy. We've been set up. Both of us. I don't know how, but somehow. Great._

"You have betrayed me yet again, Sister," Nuada said as soon as both Nuala and Dylan were within earshot. Dylan almost flinched at the sharpness of the grief in the Elf prince's words. In his eyes.

"It is time you did your duty by her, Brother." The princess's voice could have been made of dagger-sharp ice crystals for all the warmth it held. Nuala tried to ignore the almost pleading look in her twin's eyes as she continued, "You try to invade her bed - give her the protection of legitimacy."

"Oh, for crying out loud!"

Dylan shoved between the Elven woman and her brother. Tingles of apprehension shivered up and down the mortal's spine at having her back to an infuriated Elf prince - and boy, she could tell he was  _pissed_ \- but she only stood up straighter and stared into Nuala's strange, surprised eyes. Normally she wouldn't have given a flying rat's buttered carcass if someone were slandering her and calling her a slut or whatever, but obviously Nuada  _did_  care about these accusations, and he'd done enough for her that seeing that shattered, horrified look in his eyes infuriated her.

"We are  _not_  sleeping together! How many times do I have to tell you people? What, do I have to sign a contract in blood? Sheesh. I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance and I are not having and have not had sex. Happy, now? Good grief! Now, what's the big deal about our clothes?"

"If you walk into the king's Hall dressed to match me, it is a declaration before the court. Did anyone see you?" Nuada demanded.

Frazzled, the human ran a hand through her hair. "I don't  _know_ , I was trying to keep up with  _her_." She flung her arm to indicate Nuala, who was boring invisible holes in her brother's head with the intensity of her amber stare. "Anyway, great, a declaration. Of what, exactly?"

"There are five possibilities," Nuala said softly. "And only two are open to my brother."

"Begging your pardon, Princess, but I am  _so_ not talking to you right now," Dylan growled, and turned her back on the princess. To Nuada, she said, "Okay. How bad is the damage? I could go change or... I don't know, get spattered with mud from a passing carriage or something. Do you guys even have carriages?" Before either twin could reply, she held up a hand and shook her head quickly. "Never mind, tangent. Gotta focus. Damage report?"

"This matching," Nuada explained. "It can mean five things: that you are my slave, that you are my..." The Elf prince nearly choked on the thought. Through clenched teeth he managed to spit out, "That I have..." He would not allow even a  _shred_  of nausea to make him ill. "Bedded you... and mean to keep you as my... paramour." The thought of which infuriated him. As if he would ever treat Dylan that way. As if, human or not, he would take the woman who had done so much for him and his people and use her like some cheap whore. His fingers curled into white-knuckled fists. "That," he added, "or..."

"Or that you are his wife, or his betrothed," Nuala finished, with a disgusted look at her twin. Was the thought of giving Dylan such a title truly that repulsive to him? She was comely enough, beneath the slashing scars. Not a great beauty, perhaps, but then Nuada was not considered handsome by Elven standards anyway. "Or that he courts you in earnest, which is just as bad in the eyes of his supporters. With a betrothal, it could be supposed our Father has trapped him into it. But if my brother courts you, it will seem as if he does it for love of you."

"You've got to be kidding," the mortal replied weakly. She looked into firegold eyes and saw the sick, hopeless anger. Not kidding.

"His honor precludes him from allowing you to enter under the illusion that you are his slave or lover. His debt to you alone forbids such a smirch against you. And all in Bethmoora know that the prince is not married. If any of the royal family marries - at least, if they wed for love and not for politics - Bethmoora itself rejoices. Which leaves him only two options. They will all assume you betrothed, as no mere sweetheart would offer to die for my brother, especially more than once. And even betrothed, many will reason that it is for love, as you both tried so desperately to save the other two nights ago."

The blood drained from Dylan's face and for a moment she thought she might actually faint. She swayed as dizziness blurred her vision. There was a roaring in her ears. She started to sway, actually dipped as if about to fall. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her upright, and then gave her a small, gentle shake.

"Dylan?" Nuada's voice. Nuada... matching outfits. Betrothed. What? Impossible, no way. She couldn't marry someone who wasn't a member of the Church. She'd made the decision to obey that rule more than a decade ago. Her future children had the right to have a father who could wield the priesthood.

And she certainly wasn't going to marry someone older than dirt, even if he was ridiculously handsome. Especially someone who hated her. Someone who would rather gouge out his own eyes than be with her that way.

"Dylan!" More insistently now. Why was everything so dark? Were her eyes closed? She opened them to see blurry, black-rimmed amber eyes. Something that might have been worry glinted in their depths. His voice was almost gentle as he said, "Take a breath. Deeply, now. Slowly."

As soon as she sucked in a breath of cool air, her head began to clear. Everything swam back into focus. Nuada's golden gaze no longer blurred in front of her. The prince released her the next moment as if he'd been burned. The human realized she could stand up on her own and even speak again. "So... we're engaged? What? I don't... understand. I'll go change. Like, now." She turned to go back the way she'd come and paused as another wave of dizziness swept over her.  _Oh, you've got to be kidding. The vapors? Me?_  Dylan rolled her eyes at herself and tried to shake off the strange feeling.  _I'm changing now. I've caused Nuada enough problems, thank you._

Nuala watched the way her brother surreptitiously wiped his hands on his trousers. The same hands that had moments ago gripped the human woman so she would not fall. Had that truly been concern in his eyes? Kindness in his voice? Or was it all a ploy? The Elf princess could not discern if her brother played some game, or was actually giving vent to true emotion. The only way for her to know was to open herself to his mind, and that she would never do again. Frustration buzzed at the back of her skull. Neither Nuada nor the human were behaving in the ways the king had expected. Should not Dylan be happy for the chance to wed an Elf, and a prince at that?

"Sister, end this farce," Nuada practically snarled. "You cannot mean for me to enter our Father's presence with a mortal on my arm!" He actually looked ill at the thought. "I vowed long ago that I should never plight my troth to any-"

"Unless they were to win your heart." At the prince's thunderous look, his sister inclined her head regally. "I know she has not. But our Father is no respector of intention in this. The mortal has won your mercy, your charity - if not your love. That alone fulfills the bounds of that oath, yet I have succeeded in giving Dylan your love, as well. She wears your token, Brother."

Nuada's eyes zeroed in on the necklace hanging between Dylan's collarbones. A look of almost agony flashed through the Elven warrior's eyes. The human felt the blood freeze in her veins as she realized then why Nuala hadn't told her what the Old Gaelic phrase on the back of the pendant meant. Memory came crashing back with enough force to make the human woman's head spin. A Ghrá - my love.  _My love._  Romantic, fraternal, platonic, it didn't matter. The token said  _my love._  Nuada's token... to his sister. Had he made the pendant for the princess? Somehow Dylan knew he had. And the cruelty of what Nuala had done, the total and awful unfairness of it, made Dylan's eyes sting. How could Nuala have done that to her own brother?

"Ní féidir liom grá di _,_ " Nuada whispered in the Old Tongue. It felt as if his world were breaking. The pieces of his shattered heart seemed small enough to pass through the eye of a needle. If only Wink were here... or he and Dylan were alone, back in her idyllic little cottage. It would be easier, then, to let the pain burn inside him. Let the hollow grief rake at his belly like a ravening beast. Dylan somehow never made him feel weak or sick when a brief memory of pain came to him. If this one attempted to knock his feet from under him, if he gave in and let it swamp him, she would not offer scorn or pity or anger. But standing before his sister, knowing Nuala would offer all of those things, he could only plead brokenly, "Gceist agam go bhfuil ar do shon _._ "

_Oh, God,_ Dylan prayed, fighting back the sting of tears. She had never seen anyone look so broken and alone.  _Did You hear him, Heavenly Father? He said, "I don't love her. I meant that for you." How_  could  _she? How could she_  do  _this to him?_

"Why are you doing this, Nuala?" Dylan demanded. Her nails bit into her palms as she struggled against the urge to run to Nuada and throw her arms around him, shield him from everyone who seemed intent on seeing him as a monster, as a villain. Embracing him that way would just make everything worse.

"Politics." And here the princess smiled, and her beautiful mouth was gilded with cruel triumph, like icy starlight on a sword's edge. It was the perfect mask to cover the ragged hole in her chest that was her brother's pain... and her own. She had not wanted this, but she would give herself up to the Sluagh before she let her twin see that. "You understand, do you not, Brother? I merely seek to rob you of your supporters at court. Do not believe me ignorant of your plans regarding the last piece of the Golden Crown. I strike a preemptive blow for our side. When your loyal supporters see you betrothed to a human, for that is what they will assume, they shall desert you like the dishonorable cowards they are."

"Fantastic," the human muttered. "I'm a pawn in Elven sibling rivalry. By the way, Princess," Dylan added, and her voice was equal parts anger and sarcasm when she practically spat Nuala's title, "no one is going to believe we're together. So I'm gonna go change my clothes now. Put on something festive, lots of color."

"Except nearly the entire court already believes you two are desperately in love. The path my brother cut through our foes two nights ago was bloody and brutal, even more so than he usually can lay claim to. Rumors fly amongst the people, that the prince has found solace and heart's ease in a mortal's arms. As for changing..." The look Nuala fixed her with froze her in her tracks. "You may not, by order of the Royal House of Bethmoora."

"What do you mean,  _she may not?_  You would seek to inflict your twisted schemes on an unsuspecting mortal, Sister, and yet you claim that  _I_  am the one who lacks honor?"

"They are not my schemes alone. Our Father is most cunning, Nuada. It was he who concocted this plan."

"You're joking." Dylan stared at the princess. "The King of Elfland is forcing me to marry his son? Why? I thought you guys hated humans."

Surprised, the princess turned to the mortal. "We do not - indeed,  _could_  not - hate one such as you, Dyl-"

"Do not  _dare_ speak her name!" Nuada fought against the rage pulsing through his blood like the throbbing pain of a wound. Grief and fury suffused every part of him like an insidious poison, one to which he possessed no antidote. To see Dylan's face, to know that his sister - his  _sister_ , his other half - had betrayed him and the human that had saved him so many times, filled him with a seething rage that fired his eyes to molten bronze and made his blood burn. "I never thought this day would come, Nuala. Your hypocrisy sickens me. How could you and Father do this to me? To  _her?_  We have done nothing wrong or dishonorable, and yet still you seek to punish us. To shame me. To wrench from my grasp any and all support I possess in my father's court. Why?"

"So that when you find the final crown piece, when that bloody and terrible day comes, there will be none under your leadership willing to rise up and butcher the humans! Then, when you come before Father and I to demand our parts of the crown, there will be no one to steal it for you." Nuala raged in Old Gaelic. She did not wish Dylan to hear this part. If the human knew what Nuada was capable of, was in fact desirous in doing... the princess knew the human would panic, would seek to escape the Elf who sought her race's destruction. And that could not happen, either. Not if the plan was to succeed. "I seek only to defend my people! To preserve their honor!  _Our_ honor! And you... you seek only the slaughter of all humanity."

As the Elves raged at each other in the Old Tongue of their people, the human caught in the midst of their struggle closed her eyes and bowed her head, seeking inward for some measure of calm. After a long moment, she heard, beneath the furious contention of the royal twins, the sound of soft music. Seconds later, she heard the words.

_More gratitude give me; more trust in the Lord; more pride in his glory; more hope in his word... more meekness in trial... more strength to o'ercome..._

_All right,_  Dylan prayed silently, as the Elves continued to snarl at each other.  _You knew this was happening. You didn't warn me, which means one of two things. Either this is something You want to happen, or You trust me to handle it on my own. Or, a third option - it's both. I pick C, both. Is that true?_  A soft warmth filled her chest, and she smiled inwardly.  _Okay, the question is, why do You want this to happen? Do You want me to marry Nuada, or do I need to figure out how to get out of this as one of my trials? Somehow, I don't think you're going to tell me the answer to that one._  The warmth intensified, and this time her smile was outward, as well.  _All right, then. Since You trust me, I'll do what I can, and behave how the Spirit guides me. I know You'll never test me beyond what I can handle._

_I would ask... I won't ask for me to make the right choice. I have agency, which means I make my own choices. What I_ will  _ask... is for the blessings of a clear mind, sharpened perception, a stronger desire to do what You want me to, and a more open heart, that I might more easily discern the promptings of the Holy Ghost. And... I would ask for help in eschewing my anger at Nuala and forgiving her for this. I know she loves her brother - her tears when she read my mind were pretty obvious, and they weren't fake. So obviously she's got a good reason for doing this. Sane people don't just randomly decided to screw with the people they love. I just wish I knew what the reason was. If You think I should know, please help me find out somehow. And if You don't think I ought to know... that stinks. But I'm okay with it. Thanks for all the help so far. I know I could never do any of this without Thee. I thank Thee, in Christ's name, amen._

As Dylan pulled herself out of the prayer, and let the real world come back to her, she realized both twins were still growling at each other in Old Gaelic.

"Princess Nuala, it's not fair that you're speaking a language I don't know," the human interrupted, surprising both the prince and princess with the even tone of her voice. The panic and confusion from moments ago seemed to have mysteriously dissipated. Left behind was an eerie calm. "I'm getting one word in five, here. And anyway, no one is going to buy this. And you can't force Nuada to marry me.  _I_  won't marry  _him._ "

"But why, Dyl-" A vicious look from Nuada ripped the human's name from his sister's mouth. Nuala cleared her throat and asked curiously, "Why ever not? You love him, do you not?"

"I..."  _What? Where did_ that  _come from?_   _She's smart and sneaky, I'll give her that much_. "Um... well, yes," the mortal replied, flustered, and tried to ignore Nuada's scandalized and half-stunned look (not to mention Nuala's shock that she'd agreed so swiftly). Was she blushing? Dylan fervently hoped not. "I love everyone. Or I try to. I even love you, devious and backstabbing as you're being right now." She winced. That was  _not_  being forgiving. That was being obnoxious and... what was the opposite of merciful? Whatever it was, that was exactly what she was being, Dylan reflected. She sighed. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I shouldn't have spoken sharply to you. That was uncalled for, and I apologize. Please forgive me. And yes, I love and respect your brother, as  _you_  should. I consider him a dear friend and an important ally."

_Oh, she has a courtier's tongue, this one,_ Nuala thought.  _She's more dangerous than I thought._  Aloud, she said, "That is not what I mean. This you know quite well."

"You mean am I  _in love_  with your brother?" The look the human shot at Nuada left the Elf prince stunned. Where had the disinterest, the sense of unsatisfied appraisal, come from? Was it simply a cultivated mask, like his own court facade? Dylan added, "Ew. Dude, gross. He doesn't even have the priesthood. He's not a follower of the High King of the World, and without those two things, we could never get married in His temple. What good would he do me as a spouse?"

"And does Father truly want a mortal to rule at my side when it is time for me to be king?" The prince demanded, ignoring the human's comment. He would deal with the sharpness of  _her_  tongue later. For now they had to present a united front before their enemies, including his beloved twin. "I think not. Or does he expect her to have withered away and died of her mortality by that time?"

"This is not up for discussion, Brother. Now, there is no time for either of you to change. You know the laws regarding punctuality when summoned by the king, my brother. If you possess a shred of honor, prove it now. Do what your honor demands. Take her as your betrothed. That is what they will all believe anyway. Accept it."

"No!" Dylan moved to Nuada, who actually flinched back from her. If she hadn't understood everything his sister was trying to inflict on him, the human might have let the act hurt her feelings, or piss her off. Instead, she had to fight the urge to try and comfort the prince. She knew he wouldn't appreciate it. Knew that, despite having sworn by the Darkness, Nuala wouldn't believe her if she tried to hug Nuada or truly comfort him.

But for crying out loud, this wasn't  _fair!_  Dylan knew the thought of marrying a mortal totally grossed the Elf out. The idea of marrying a man who didn't possess the Priesthood wasn't something she wanted to think much about, either, though that was for her future children's sake and because of her oaths as one of the Star Kindler's children, not because it was abhorrent to her. But to have to marry someone you didn't even  _love_  - could  _never_  love, probably - was absolutely and completely disgusting. Hadn't that kind of thing gone out with the Dark Ages?

"Nuada, you don't have to do this. We'll say I'm your slave if we have to-"

"And then he will be flogged yet again for enslaving a human," Nuala said coolly.

"Fine!" Silently, Dylan reminded herself that ripping out the beautiful Elf princess's hair was  _not_  something Heavenly Father wanted her to do. Darn it. "We'll say I'm your... we'll say I'm your lover." She winced, but inwardly. It was a lie, which sucked, but it was to  _help_  someone. And, if she were being honest with herself, Nuada being the someone who needed help was a big inducement to fib. "That way it'll be open as to your motives, since most of them are thinking you're cooking up something nasty to do to me anyway, and-"

"And then  _you_  will be tortured for lying to the king, Dylan. Which," the princess added with some exasperation, "you probably would not let dissuade you, but think on this. Nuada will be shamed by letting you profess to a lie and letting you remove your integrity from yourself strictly for his own benefit. And some damage is still done to my brother's alliances with his court sycophants even if you choose such. Brother, there is no choice here. Accept it. Time is passing. The doors will open in but moments."

"This isn't  _fair_ , Princess!" And she would  _not_ have let Balor torture her just so she could pose as Nuada's lover. Even she had limits.

"Fairness has never been our objective, Dylan. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," the princess replied, and Dylan froze. A shiver traipsed up her spine at the words. As Elves didn't watch television, Dylan knew the Elf woman wasn't quoting  _Star Trek_ on purpose. But...

_Was that the answer to my question, Heavenly Father? There's something going on here no one is telling me. What is it?_

Nuala added, "The betrothal will take place. If not tonight, then soon. Once you step beyond these doors, it is only a matter of time. Even if you resist it, it will happen. The king has commanded it."

"She is right," the prince whispered. He sounded so defeated she wanted to punch someone. "We must... play along with this...  _revolting_ charade."

"Only for now. We'll think of something," Dylan promised, turning back to the pale prince. There was desperation and... was that fear in those pale topaz eyes? Whatever it was, those bestial emotions made her chest ache. He looked like a wounded animal caught in a trap. Anger sizzled under her skin. "We will! We can have a fight later and break off our supposed engagement or courtship or whatever and you can give some speech about how you should have known that all humans were the same and how we all totally suck. We'll figure it out."

"Yes, we will. Later," he agreed. "We must play this out now, however. The only question is, which is more damaging? Courtship or engagement?"

"Nuala said courtship would be worse because people will assume we're secretly engaged anyway and that you're in love with me." When the prince's throat convulsed, she winced and stepped back. She did  _not_  want to get thrown up on. "Sorry, just saying."

"Still... with an engagement, I will be trapped.  _We_ will be trapped. Thus, we shall attempt a facade of courtship."

"Okay. Whatever you say, my prince, I'll do." She really couldn't have cared less about the whole matchy-matchy thing. If there had been no danger of Nuada getting in trouble, she'd have tossed King Balor an airy "screw you and your antlers, too," and changed into raggedy blue jeans and a lumberjack shirt just to spite him. But the prince would most likely be punished if they didn't acquiesce. Since she had absolute faith that their combined genius would squash the king's stupid little plan into a pancake (eventually), there was no reason not to throw her support behind the Elf prince. And she'd do whatever he said because, as she went on to explain, "I'm not very good at politics anyway, so I'm following your lead on this."

At that moment the huge double doors leading into the hall of the One-Armed King began to slowly creak open. They seemed to be moving a millimeter a minute, and yet they seemed to eat up time with a wildfire's hunger. Nuada held up his left arm, stiff and formal, at his side. Dylan shot one wild-shy glance at his face. It was blank as an unused slate. "Crumb cake," the human swore. "Nuada, I'm  _so_  sorry."

He softened enough to glance down at her. "It is no fault of  _yours_." With his other hand, he pulled her right arm until it lay atop his upraised left one. Her palm touched the back of his hand. A shiver sizzled through her at the contact. She'd never touched his bare skin before, she realized. Not like this, anyway. Not without hate and suspicion, blood and pain and the rush of desperation between them as she tried to mend his wounds. His hand was warm, the skin lightly furred with soft blond hair except where a thin rough line crossed the back of his hand. A battle scar. One of many, she was certain. His fingers when they touched her were callused, but surprisingly gentle. She could feel the quiet strength in the muscles of his arm.

"Of course it is not her fault," Nuala began. "She-"

"No offense, Princess," Dylan said, turning away from the Elven woman, "but I can't seem to keep a civil tongue in my head when I talk to you. So please don't talk to me right now."

The door opened fully, and a gasp went up from the assembled courtiers within. A tremor went through Nuada - slight, but noticeable, as Dylan had her hand on his. She pressed ever so lightly on the back of his hand in a gesture of support and turned her head a bit to catch his eye. When he glanced at her, she smiled encouragingly. He arched one slender, golden brow. She smiled wider and mouthed, "Let's do this."

Nuada found his own lips quirking into the barest shadow of a smile. How could she be so foolhardy... and so brave? Here she was, offering him courage, when it must be terrifying for her to walk out with him, to present herself at her side. Everyone would believe he courted her, if not that he had plighted his troth to her.

_The necklace_ , he thought with no little bitterness.  _That cursed token_. It was practically the same as getting on bended knee before the entire court and begging Dylan's hand in marriage. Yet she would stand by him, in front of all the dangerous and capricious Daoine Maithe of Bethmoora's golden court.

The prince had to admit to himself - but only to himself - that if his sister had to do this vicious and cruel thing, better it be with Dylan at his side than any other.

And so, at the mortal's silent words of encouragement and challenge, he inclined his head in agreement and forced the softness he usually reserved for Nuala and his father into his eyes. With a false smile and pain still tearing at his heart, he walked out of the shadowed corridor with his new and too-mortal lady, into the golden light of the king's Hall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The thing w/"I just wish I could have seen him..." was inspired both by Nuada in chapter eleven&by that scene from the Return of the King, w/Arwen. I really wanted a sense of balance between the chapters,&a parallel between Dylan&Nuada. Hope it worked.  
> \- LDS standards for clothing are: knee-length or longer shorts, skirts, dresses, etc. The only exceptions are if, for example, you're wearing pants under your skirt, or if it's a bathing suit.  
> \- That song is "To Become Like Him"&I believe it's by Hilary Weeks. The line is, "You don't need to prove your beauty in the eyes of men. You are divine w/Him. You were sent here to become like Him."  
> \- The floor crest is fictional. However, it is made up of three images from Irish mythology - the winged horse, the single eye (not, not the evil eye of Balor the Fomorian, sorry),&the moon-like ship.  
> \- A kabouter is a Dutch house faerie (similar to a brownie). They have long beards&tall, pointy red hats (like the Travelocity Roaming Gnome, which is actually a type of kabouter). They are very small&either live underground or under mushroom caps. They are generally shy of humans.  
> \- The part where Nuada&Becan are introducing Dylan to Caspar is inspired the movie Kate&Leopold. In that movie, Leopold introduces Kate&he's like, "Kate McCay... (silent um)... of the McCays of... (another silent um)..."&then Kate's like, "(Silent um)... Massapequa!"  
> \- Nils Fjøsnisse is a tomte, a Swedish farm sprite. Tomtes are like brownies, but they usually watch over farms&take especial care of livestock. Their favorite animal is the horse. They dress in farmer's clothes, have full beards,&it is said by some that they only have four fingers, one eye, and/or eyes that glow in the dark.  
> \- The song Dylan is singing is "Put Your Shoulder To The Wheel."  
> \- A kobold is a German faerie that lives in either houses, mines, or on ships.  
> \- A bieresal is a kobold that lives in the beer cellar of an inn.  
> \- Léine: the long, ankle-length dresses worn by Celtic women before the Middle Ages.  
> \- Brat: a Gaelic cloak of wool, held closed by a broach, worn by both men&women in Celtic Ireland.  
> \- in medieval times, if a man&woman attended a formal event dressed to match each other, it was a declaration that they were together, romantically. It might be husband&wife, betrothed, or just boyfriend/girlfriend. The slave aspect I got from Gwenfarr's amazing fic, Saving Nuada, where the MC, Light, is given three outfits that match three of Nuada's, to show she is his slave (sort of like livery).  
> \- Dylan's reluctant to marry someone who is not a member of the Church is because only guys in the LDS Church can wield the Priesthood. Part of our doctrine states children have a divine right to be born into a household w/a Priesthood holder. This might not seem fair, but I can only tell you that having someone w/the Priesthood in your home is amazing. My husband holds the Priesthood,&when we have kids, I'll know that I can always go to him for any kind of help that he can give me or the children through that Priesthood (giving Father's Blessings, for example, or Blessings of Healing or Comfort). When I joined the Church when I was younger, I was lucky that whenever I needed a blessing, I could call my best friend's dad, or the missionaries. A lot of people don't have that option,&that is one reason the Church stresses to young women that they should marry worthy Priesthood holders.  
> \- In the movie A Knight's Tale, when William is trying to write an apology letter to Jocelyn, the lady he loves, his friends are trying to help him&one of them says, "The pieces of my broken heart are so small as to be passed through the eye of a needle."  
> \- The hymn Dylan hears in her mind is called "More Holiness Give Me." It reflects an attitude I think everybody should have. I've listed the words at the bottom of this chapter.  
> \- Okay, about the warmth in the chest thing. LDS doctrine states that when you ask God about something, you don't just ask Him for the info. You "study it out in your mind," as it says in Doctrine&Covenants (one of our 4 standard works), make your decision,&then ask God if you're right. If you are right, it says in D&C that the Holy Ghost will cause the knowledge of the truth "to burn in your bosom." It doesn't happen that way for everyone - everybody's different - but that happens often enough that I felt comfortable using it here.  
> \- Nuala's words about integrity are a paraphrase from the Book of Job in the Old Testament. Job said that as long as he lived, "I will not remove mine integrity from me." It's the verse they use for the Integrity Value for Young Women's.  
> \- "The needs of the many..." is from Star Trek. Spock says it sometimes


	5. In the Hall of the Mountain King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nuada and Dylan must brave a night in the king's court, pretending to be in love...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concerning the Chapter Title: "In the Hall of the Mountain King" is one of my favorite pieces of classical music ever! Just saying. I don't know who wrote it, but it's pretty famous, and it is one of my favorites. At least I think it's classical. Might be baroque or something.
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of war, sexual assault, torture, political games, etc. Basically the same as what was in the last chapter, but less graphic.

  1. **In the Hall of the Mountain King**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of Worry, Spies, Presentation, Commandments, Obedience, and the Bane of Life That Is Gossip**



.

.

All right, that was it. He'd had  _enough_. That fainting spell three nights ago Thursday had been the last straw. He and Dylan were gonna have a talk, and they were gonna have it tonight.

John parked his beat-up red Mustang as close to the gates of Central Park as he could without getting a ticket and lurched out of the cramped driver's seat. Frustration sizzled in every line of his body. She couldn't keep doing this to him! Something  _had_  to give. The icy winter wind and frigid drizzle soaking him as he walked only amped up his anger. How was he supposed to get a decent shot at anything other than cruddy security assignments instead of the important stuff when random crap kept happening to him at bizarre moments because of his whacked-out telepathic connection to his twin? With a spine ramrod straight and clenched fists, he marched up the steps to her cottage and pounded on the door.

"Dylan! Open up!" Hunching his shoulders inside his raincoat didn't keep the chilly wind from slipping inside and leeching the heat from his skin. Gritting his teeth, he banged again. "Dylan! Come on, come out! We gotta talk."

And what, exactly, did they need to talk about? About the fact that he accidentally shot a guy in the back of the leg because of whatever had been going on with her at the time. He hadn't gotten the job at MIB, needless to say. Maybe Sector Seven was hiring. Or Roswell. Or maybe Warehouse Thirteen. Although he hadn't heard anything about Sector Seven employing psychics, Roswell and Warehouse Thirteen usually did. And they were probably the only government agencies who wouldn't care that he'd shot someone while his psychic powers – if they could even be called powers – were on the fritz. Especially at the Warehouse, as they didn't use guns. If he got desperate, he could always put in for the liaison position to Torchwood. They didn't use guns very often, either.

But he shouldn't have  _been_  desperate, darn it. After that little escapade in the alternate-dimensional black hole as a kid, the government had been very interested in his life and education. He'd been their golden boy. Or future golden boy, since he'd only been twelve at the time. Whatever. John Thaddeus Myers shouldn't have had trouble finding a government job, since Uncle Sam had paid his and his sister's way through college to bribe him into working for the government. But now, thanks to his sister, he'd lost out on the opening in MIB. What else would he lose if they didn't fix this?

"Come on, Sis!" He called. The rain was starting to pick up. Now it became icy needles driving into his skin. He shivered as frigid rain water rolled in fat, shiver-inducing drops down the back of his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. "We need to talk!"

A sliver of unease now. Dylan wouldn't just not answer her door. She'd check the peephole, and even on those rare occasions where they'd wanted to practically kill each other, she'd never left him on her doorstep in inclement weather. Which meant she wasn't home.

But Dylan was  _always_  home at night. She didn't like being out alone after dark. After a couple weeks of feeling his sister's terror shivering through his veins after her return in February, John had finally set it up so that either he or his sister's secretary, Ariel, drove her home after dark. And he or Ariel always drove her to work, since taking the subway had led to her attack almost eleven months ago. But Ariel reported that Dylan hadn't been to the office since Thursday. That was just fine, since she had a couple weeks' vacation due, and his twin sometimes took Fridays off to do service projects with her church or other goody-goody things like that.

Except that she should be home  _now_. The first Sunday of November was tomorrow, and he and Dylan were supposed to hash out their plans for attending the Singles' Ward Break-the-Fast at her church, since he'd finally agreed to go (on the condition that she went with him, even though it wasn't actually her ward). How were they supposed to finalize their plans if she wasn't even  _here?_

 _She's always home at night,_ he repeated silently.  _Always. Even when the faires and festivals are up. Why won't she answer?_  With fingers numbed by the cold despite his gloves, John pulled out his cell and pressed 3 – his sister's cellular speed dial. It went straight to voicemail. Either turned off, or dead. Great.

"Dylan, I'm coming in, okay?" John called, just in case. With a trembling hand he pulled out his linked rings of keys and found the ring that held the eight keys for her door – one key for the knob, seven for the dead bolts. After turning all eight keys in their locks, he pushed the heavy granite door open. It swung easily on its oiled brass hinges and the government agent stepped into the entryway. Only night-dimmed faerie lights illuminated the floor. As soon as he walked in, shutting the door behind him with a  _click_  that echoed down the hall, he knew his sister hadn't been here in at least a couple days.

There were no signs of struggle, and the doors had been locked, which meant she'd at least left willingly. Probably. Unless she'd been held at gunpoint. But that didn't feel right. Wouldn't he have felt her fear, seen something to give him a clue? All he'd seen was the Hunter. Maybe she'd gone on a walk and run into one. Maybe it had attacked her! But that didn't feel right, either.

A white square on the floor with tiny black shapes on it caught his eye. He knelt down and picked up an unsealed envelope from the floor. His name in black ink stared back at him. John flipped open the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. Recognizing a page from Dylan's memo book, he murmured the words to brighten the enchanted hall light and scanned the words scribbled in purple gel ink in the dim glow.

_John-Boy,_

_Don't panic if I'm not home. I had to go help one of our neighbors, and I_  
_had to do it in a hurry. I'm probably okay, though. Call in for me at work_  
_if you have to_ –  _tell them whatever. If I'm not back in a week, call the_  
_cops, because I'm probably dead, but I'm pretty sure I'll be back_ _  
_by then.__   _The guy who helped me back in December_   _needed a friend. He'll_  
_keep me safe._

 _Please feed Bat and leave cream and stuff out for our other neighbors._  
_And drop off my lesson stuff at the home ward tomorrow by 8:30._ _  
_Sister Johnston is expecting it. It's on__   _the coffee table underneath_ _  
_the green book,__ Spindle's End.  _And my cell phone's dead - can you_ _  
_plug it in for me? I love you.__

_Zimmie-D_

_PS_ –  _If I'm gone on Sunday, even if you don't go to_  
_Break-the-Fast, please drop off the Jello things I made._ _  
_They're in the fridge. No, you can't have any if you don't__  
_go to Break-the-Fast. And yes, I expect you to fast_  
_if you're going to eat there. Don't be a wimp. Love you._

One of "our neighbors." He knew exactly what that meant – a faerie. The one that had saved her and brought her to the hospital all those months ago had... how had she put it? Needed a friend. What the heck did  _that_  mean?

But she'd signed it Zimmie-D, which meant everything was okay and she hadn't had to write this note under duress. John actually smiled when he thought of how much she'd hated it as a kid when he'd called her Zimmie-D. Zimmie was one of Bob Dylan's nicknames, since his real name had been Robert Zimmerman. Since his name had been Robert, however, and hers had been Dylan, a five-year-old John had always added a D at the end. She'd hated that name, but it was also one of their code words growing up, a sign that everything was okay with her, just like he'd always let her call him John-Boy, even though he absolutely loathed  _The Waltons_ , and signed any of his okay-notes the same way. If something was wrong, he'd always signed their notes "John" or "Johnny" instead of his usual "J," and she'd sign "Dylan" instead of just "D." So she was all right. He could relax.

 _Well,_  he grumbled, staring at the memo paper,  _at least I'll get to pig out tomorrow. And I'm eating at least two helpings of all those Jello thingies._  His sister made some pretty rockin' Jello.

**.**

_I could slay him now. He'd never see it coming,_  Eamonn thought, silver eyes burning with a thrill of anticipation. Inside the cottage, the human slut's kin scanned a piece of paper. A letter, no doubt.  _I could leave his corpse there for her to find. And when she found him, I could come upon her while she was yet unaware, and break into her mind again, and Nuada would_ –

"Calm yourself, Eamonn," a cold voice ordered. The silver-eyed Elf shot a scathing look at the dark-eyed warrior at his side. If not for the silver chain around the other fayre's throat, the dark Elf would've likely slain his companion long ago. But even for the favorite lieutenant of the one Eamonn called liege, killing the favored lieutenant of the fae lord known as the Dark Hunter would've been unwise. Eamonn loathed Iolo, Master of Cŵn Annwn, nearly as much as he loathed the hypocritical Silverlance (though for vastly different reasons). "We're not here to indulge your twisted fantasies," Iolo continued. "We're here to see if the mortal returns to her home this night. If she doesn't, we are to report back to our respective masters. Nothing more."

"I don't need a lowly Welshman to give me orders," Eamonn snarled. "My king is foolish enough to trust your master, but I'm not so blinded. Don't think I've forgotten he betrays his own king with this alliance, and so do you."

"Why are you so obsessed with the mortal at all, Eamonn?" Iolo taunted, arching a brow. "One would fancy you in love with her as well, and mad with your own jealousy."

"It is Silverlance who occupies my thoughts," the dark Elf hissed. He spoke Nuada's title as if it were an obscenity. "Silverlance and the best way to break him. Believe me, I've thought of every possible thing I could do to bring that baseborn scut to his knees. The human is the key. Hurt the princess, and he dies when she does. It would be over too quickly. His father? The Silverlance will mourn, but it will only serve to fire his vengeance. But the mortal... to lose her... to lose the woman you love would steal the heart even from you, Iolo. Once I end her, Silverlance's heart will shatter. Then I can take my time with the old fool of a king and his whore of a daughter. More knives in his heart. In the end, Silverlance will beg me to end his pitiful existence. I dream of the day when I can rip out his heart with my bare hands."

With just a subtle bite of sarcasm, the Welsh faerie replied, "How charming."

Infuriated, Eamonn turned on Iolo and growled, "Welsh  _dog_ -"

"Enough of this ridiculous bickering," another voice demanded, sounding almost bored. The dark-haired Elf subsided as eyes like the summer sky glanced at him. Even Eamonn knew not to push the son of his master. The Elves of Cíocal weren't known for their patience. "We have the information my father wanted," the blue-eyed prince added. "The human is staying at Findias. Well and good. Arrachd and Iolo's men will keep watch on the mortal's home. Now let us leave this filthy place. I can smell the stink of human machines from here."

As the three faeries faded into the dark recesses of the trees, Iolo turned to the third and said, "What will your father do now, Prince Bres?"

"He'll send me to Findias to pay homage to Balor in the next few days," the bored voice drawled. "As a token of our 'continuing loyalty' in the face of Eamonn's treachery. The old Elf will be wondering about his allies now, especially with the mortal in his halls. I will also go to see what can be done with that clever little human whore... and with the delectable little princess."

**.**

_Just breathe,_  Dylan reminded herself as she and Nuada strode forward, Nuala on her brother's other side. Every step seemed to echo through the suddenly silent hall. The distance between the entry doors and the dais where King Balor sat upon his throne seemed to span the entire world. Still, it was strangely comforting to hear the soft tread of the Elven prince's boots in time with her own footsteps. Was he walking in time with her on purpose? That was going to be hard later, when her leg started to protest the fact that she didn't have her cane and her meds wore off.

 _Just breathe,_  she repeated.  _Don't panic. It's just playing pretend. Everything's going to be okay._  And whenever doubt tried to slither down her throat and make her nauseous with sheer nerves, she would surreptitiously glance at the stoic prince beside her and relax a little.  _He won't let anything bad happen to me._

When they finally stood at the foot of the dais, Balor's golden eyes peered down at them. The light glittered off the king's golden torc and belt. His antlers speared the air high overhead. Dylan's stomach did a back-flip.  _Should I bow? Curtsy? What do I do now?_

Nuada caught her eye, and ever so slightly inclined his head toward the king. The prince shifted, and almost as if they'd practiced it, they bowed in perfect unison. Dylan knew it was only because Nuada was matching his moves to her.

The people behind them were whispering in earnest now. Dylan wished she could understand Old Gaelic better. It would've been nice to know what they were saying about her. Specifically, she would've liked to know if any of the women were plotting to poison her, rip her hair out, or gouge out her eyes. Nuada wasn't exactly bad looking, after all. There were bound to be court ladies suckered in by the charade, and jealous as a result. That jealousy would only be ratcheted up by the fact that this woman who came into the king's Hall on Prince Nuada's arm was mortal, and barely considered pretty even without the disfiguring scars that slashed her face.

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," King Balor said in ancient and flowing Gaelic. His golden voice rang out through the enormous hall, silencing the whisperers. "You have not introduced your lady to your people... or to Us."

Though there was no anger or malice in the ancient voice, Dylan heard the steely undertone of command. She didn't miss the king's use of " _your_ lady," or the royal plurality, either.

 _Translation,_ the human thought.  _Tell the court who she is right now, and make it obvious she's your girlfriend, or you're dog meat._  They had to be very careful here. They were playing along, yes, but if they weren't convincing enough - or, on the flip-side, if they were  _too_ convincing - the king would get suspicious and figure out they were planning on slipping his current leash as soon as possible.

"Your Majesty," Nuada said in that same ringing, courteous voice. "I beg your royal leave to present my lady," and here he shifted so he could take Dylan's hand and bow slightly toward her. "Lady Dylan of Central Park." In her head, she heard Nuada say,  _Bow to him again, perfunctorily._  She obeyed.

"You are most welcome in Bethmoora and the halls of Findias, Lady Dylan," the king said, and even though he didn't emphasize the word "you," Dylan knew he was implying that though she was welcome, Nuada most certainly wasn't. The first flicker of irritation bubbled up in her stomach. She quashed it and inclined her head regally. At least she  _hoped_  it looked regal, and not like she had gas.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. His Highness has told me of Bethmoora, of both its splendor and its king. I find he didn't exaggerate in his estimation of either."  _So take that, creep._ At Nuada, she thought,  _Findias?_

 _The name of this palace_   _and its township,_  Nuada said in her mind. His voice threatened to give her brain-freeze. Why did he sound so cold? Well, probably because he was furious and trying not to show it. At least he'd smiled at her before leading her before the king. The Elven prince said, "My king, I would ask... all know it's a crime punishable by death to appear before you without royal leave. Yet my lady has done so. I would know, Sire, if she's to be punished for saving my life when the traitor Eamonn sought to murder me."

 _There's that "my lady" thing again,_ Dylan thought, trying to suppress the shiver the words sent down her spine. She knew Nuada was just pretending, but did he have to sound so... so tender when he said "my lady?" It made her feel bizarre, even though it was certainly just a simple façade for the courtship charade. And just the thought of Eamonn sent a frisson of fury and icy terror sizzling under her skin.

"We've said she's welcome here. No doubt her actions were inspired by the love she bears for you, Crown Prince. Mortals love fiercely, and are sometimes... injudicious in how their love can influence them. It would make me a cruel king indeed, to punish such loving devotion."

 _Oh, ouch,_ Dylan thought dryly, fighting not to roll her eyes.  _Like that wasn't loud and clear. Translation: She's an idiot for loving a creep like you, but it's not her fault, it's yours. Jeez, what a jerk._

 _Could you cease the commentary?_  Nuada replied without taking his eyes from his father's face.  _You're making it difficult not to smile._

 _So look at me and smile,_ she said.  _Make it all gushy and saccharine. That should convince them._  Which was exactly what the amber-eyed Elven prince did, turning to her and lightly brushing his calloused knuckles along one of the thicker scars than ran down her cheek. Dylan suddenly forgot how to breathe as her knees went weak and her stomach fluttered. A frisson of fear shivered up her spine as she remembered the last time anyone had touched her face like that.  _Whoa._  The sensitive scar tissue tingled from the contact.  _Um... okay, don't do that. Please, Your Highness. That feels..._   _weird._

 _My apologies,_ he said silently, while aloud he spoke as if to her (though it was clear he meant for everyone to hear him). "I strive every day to be worthy of such devotion. As she stands always at my side, I have hope that I yet succeed."

Dylan fought not to choke on the snort that threatened. Where had that sap-sucking pickup line come from? He didn't really use lines like that to get girls, did he? Hopefully everyone would think her smile and the blush burning in her face were due to being weak-kneed at the prince's "devotion," and not because she was struggling not to laugh.  _Crud, I can't even take that line seriously, it's so cheesy._

But in her head, the prince added soberly,  _Translation: I'm not the monster he thinks I am, or you wouldn't be here._

 _Darn right, I wouldn't. What kind of girl does he think I am?_  She was trying to make him smile, and it worked. Dark lips stretched into a smile, a real one that reached his firegold eyes, one that made Dylan grin back without having to think about it. The whispering from the court increased.  _Your Highness, what are they saying?_

Surprisingly, Nuada leaned in until his lips pressed against her ear. She smelled the foresty scent that seemed to always cling to him, as well as the warm familiar smell of leather. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she thought,  _Oh, too close_ , way  _too close._  Fear shivered along her skin, but hopefully the faeries of Balor's court just thought her eyes went wide and her breathing hitched because of the prince's closeness and any romantic effect it might've had on her. "I will tell you something very interesting later... my lady." This time she couldn't stop the shiver, and it wasn't just a shiver of fear.

_Whoa. Are my eyes crossed?_

_No,_ he said as he pulled back.  _Why?_

 _Never mind,_  she said softly, absently. Now the whispering had turned to a dull roar - or was that the blood rushing to her head? Dylan knew Nuada had done the sexy-whisper-thing to give the court gossipmongers something to talk about - they'd probably been able to hear what he said, too - and to keep up the charade, but jeez. It felt like she was having a heart attack.

And as her heart began to pound, any breath of excitement disappeared, to be replaced by cold fear. Dylan had to fight against the sudden, cold slither of phantom-terror down her spine as memory tried to wrench her from the present and shove her back into the horrifying past.

 _Nuada! I..._  Flickers of memory, the feel of Eamonn's mouth against her ear whispering hideous promises, threatened to choke her. The sound of screams hammered against her skull. Suddenly she tasted the phantom copper tang of blood. For just a moment she felt Eamonn's hands on her body, touching her, violent and violating caresses. Panic was a gaping abyss stretching before her feet.  _Nuada, I'm going to fall,_  she cried, not knowing where the words came from, but knowing they were hideously true.  _Help me..._

 _Don't be afraid,_ the prince whispered in her mind. His grip on her fingers tightened. The reassuring pressure - and, she didn't doubt, a little magic - pushed back the fear until she could focus on the fact that she stood beside Nuada, her hand in his. Familiar golden eyes kept her from slipping back into memory.  _I'll not let you fall, Dylan. Do not fear._

 _Thank you,_ she whispered. The only outward indication of her panic was suddenly stinging eyes, but she blinked back any tears.  _I'm sorry for panicking. Thank you._

 _All is well,_ he replied.  _So long as I'm with you, you needn't be afraid in this place. My honor demands I protect you, and I will. Do not fear. And I shall be more careful of your memories next time._

_Thanks._

"I'm overjoyed that you've found such happiness and peace, my son," Kind Balor was saying. "This is surely a cause for much celebration. Chamberlain, see that preparations are begun for a feast in honor of the crown prince and his lady." By now, Dylan had managed to entrench her mind firmly back in the present. Unfortunately, the heart-stopping terror of a flashback was replaced by a stab of panic that lanced her breast now that she stood confronted with the idea of a "celebration feast."

 _You gotta be kidding me,_ she thought helplessly.  _Why doesn't he shoot me and get it over with?_

 _It is only a banquet,_ Nuada said, surprised the idea would upset her so much. True, she was used to her little cottage amidst the woodland green, and seemed to dislike large gatherings and parties, unlike most mortals. And he knew she disliked dressing in court clothes. He'd been able to taste Nuala's irritation at trying to get Dylan ready for this court summons, even all the way in the salle. The princess had been especially exasperated by the mortal's hair. Only the potion-qualities of Elven shampoo had managed to tame the riotous brown curls that the mortal often despaired of. Yet as long as Dylan could manage her hair (and if his sister had anything to say about it, she would), there was nothing to inspire this panic in her. And as for her hair, when had she become such a vain thing?

 _Did you just call me "vain?"_ She demanded. He nearly started in surprise. He hadn't been projecting to her. How had the mortal heard his thoughts?  _I'm_  not  _vain,_   _Your Highness_ , she added, and he could tell that if she'd been able to, she would've scowled at him.  _It's not my hair, or the clothes. I hate crowds of faeries. Being helpless and mortal, they kinda freak me out, considering they could all blink at me and I'd keel over dead if they wanted._   _Although I'm not fond of crowds of humans, either._   _Add the hair and clothes on top of that, and yes, I'm a little unhappy about the fact that your dad wants to throw us a party. And,_ Dylan added, and Nuada could feel the sudden surge of dread.  _There's going to be alcohol, isn't there?_

 _Yes,_ he replied slowly.  _This upsets you. Why?_

 _I'm not allowed to drink alcohol. Ever. That's why I don't even like going to the fancy charity dinners they do in the medical and psychiatric fields in this stupid city. They never make soda or juice or sparkling cider or, I dunno, just plain tap water available without me having to ask for it. It's always wine or champagne. And then people always give me dirty looks, which doesn't make me feel bad about abstaining since I'm making God happy, except that then everyone assumes I'm a recovering alcoholic or something and that_ that's  _why I don't drink. Which is nothing to be ashamed of and now I'm babbling and we should probably be paying attention, Your Highness. We can talk about this later._

Unfortunately, the mortal had advised him to pay attention at precisely the worst moment possible. King Balor asked, "Pray, tell Us, Prince Nuada - have you asked for the Lady Dylan's hand?"

"I-" Nuada could think of nothing to say. The panic that had so recently vacated the human at his side seemed to have taken up residence inside him, choking back any excuses he might attempt to make. Wed Dylan? Wed  _anyone?_  The thought of marrying, when war loomed on the horizon like black smoke, felt like someone had punched him in the chest.

A wife was nothing but a weakness in war. A potential hostage. And if he got his hypothetical wife with child... another potential hostage. Another weakness. And to marry a  _human_ , when they were the ones who threatened everything he held dear? But if he said that, if he spoke of war here, now, his father would-

Dylan, warmth blooming in her chest, broke in at the last possible moment with, "We've discussed it, but... a lot would have to happen first. You see, Your Majesty, I'm a Latter-Day Saint, a follower of the High King of the World. My God has commanded His followers to wed only those who follow Him in turn. And though I may love Prince Nuada with everything I am, I've loved and will always love my God more than any other, and strive always to obey His laws and edicts. His Highness and I have talked often of the Star Kindler and of faith, but he has not covenanted with the High King to follow Him. I know that my God wouldn't wish the prince to be forced to become a Latter-Day Saint - in truth, such a thing would offend Him. But until His Highness chooses of his own freewill to follow the High King, marriage to him is something I cannot consider agreeing to, even if all the kings of this world were to command it. I'm loyal to my God first.

"But," and here Dylan turned to lay her palm against Nuada's chest, over his suddenly drumming heart. The court chatter went into overdrive. "Married or not, betrothed or not, my feelings for the prince remain unchanged."

Again the Elven prince had to admire the fine edge of courtly language the human managed to walk. Her lifetime of dealing with the Gentry was obvious now in the care with which she chose her words to Balor. Never lying, always speaking truthfully, but never giving away any information she desired to keep secret. Telling the king that whether he forced them into a betrothal or not, he couldn't make her fall in love with Nuada, while giving the illusion that even if they could never be together (disgusting thought, the two of them "together" in that way) she would always love him.

And she'd made certain the One-Armed King understood that his son would have to follow the Star Kindler of his own volition, and that no commandment from King Balor would change Dylan's stance on the matter, or affect Nuada's stance toward the High King of the World.

But - and it was a very large "but" - the human was  _touching_  him. In front of  _witnesses_. The reality of that fact washed away almost all of his admiration in an instant. Still, she was only playing to the crowd, and to his father. Just as he ought to be. Mindful of the fact that Dylan had laid her hand very slowly against his chest, giving him time to protest, Nuada fought the churning sensation in his belly and covered her hand with his own. Closing his eyes, he murmured in Gaelic, "A thaisce." He touched his forehead to hers, and added, "A ghrá geal, a stór, a mhuirnín."

Dylan's breathing hitched again.  _My treasure. My bright love, my darling, my dearest._  No one had ever said that about her before, not even John.  _But he's not talking about me,_ she reminded herself as she fought to regulate her breathing.  _He's probably thinking about... someone else. I'm mortal, and he hates mortals. Relax already._

But then, with a crooked smile that sent an odd thrill through Dylan, Nuada added, "Mo duinne." Dylan couldn't fight her delighted grin. No one could've thought he meant anyone else in the court when he'd said, " _My brown one._ " The Bethmoora Elves were about as brown as the full moon.

"Such love is truly a beautiful thing," a smooth, oily voice said, shattering the moment.

When Nuada's eyes flew open, Dylan had to fight not to step back. Red as dark as blood melted into the deep bronze of sheer rage in his gaze. It took her a minute to realize he wasn't looking at  _her_ , but over her head. She turned to see the box-headed faerie with the long, creepy fingers; the same one that had argued with her the night she came to save Nuada. Instinctively, Dylan backed up, stepping closer to the prince, and barely managed to hide her surprise when one arm came around her. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder and his chin came to rest atop her head. Dylan could feel his throat working convulsively against the back of her head, as if he were trying to refrain from throwing up, and she laid her hand on his in sympathy. His grip tightened fractionally.

Box-Head continued, "I would very much like to see a demonstration of such tender feelings. As would the entire court, I think." Murmurs of assent flitted amongst the crowd and Dylan fought against slapping her forehead with her palm.

"Chamberlain," Nuada said with an icy calm that made her shiver. "I see you've not changed, even in two thousand years. Yet you seem to forget your place. I am  _not_  your dancing bear. Play a tune if you wish, but I shall not be moved, and neither shall my lady."

 _Obviously you don't like him. What exactly does he want?_ Dylan asked.

 _He suspects this is a sham, and wants me to kiss you._ The revulsion and fury burning in his voice was unmistakable. Dylan hid her wince. She wouldn't have been the Box-Head for all the tea in China, if Nuada hated him as much as he seemed to. The prince's next words confirmed her suspicions.  _As for liking... loathing would be a more apt description as to my feelings for him._

 _Oh._  Well, then. Dylan lifted Nuada's arm so she could turn and face him. The crimson and molten bronze still held sway in his infuriated gaze. With a deliberately light laugh and a coquettish smile, Dylan said coaxingly, "Gean gáire, a ghrá."  _Smile, my love._  As she shifted her grip on his hand, without changing from the flirtatious expression she asked in his mind,  _My prince, do you trust me?_

He blinked. Did he  _trust_ her? Did he, Nuada Silverlance, trust a human? Why would she ask that? The answer was obviously to the negative. And yet... this was Dylan who asked. Dylan, who'd yet to betray him, and had done everything in her power to stand by him honorably. Eleven moons was a long time for her to lie in wait like a poisonous serpent intent on striking. Eleven moons of tentative bonds forging. Still, to trust a mortal...  _If I said yes, what would you say?_

 _I would tell you to lean in as if you were going to kiss me._ The look he gave her could've drawn blood from a stone, even though it lasted only a split-second before turning to that calm politeness he'd shown his father.  ** _Trust_** _me,_ she insisted.  _I promise this will work, and it'll give them what they want without making either of us more miserable than we need to be._

She  _hoped_ it would work, anyway. He hadn't balked at whispering in her ear. Hopefully this wouldn't be any worse for him. She didn't exactly want a man she wasn't in love with kissing her, either.

As the prince leaned forward, an expectant hush stole over the assembled courtiers. Nuada took both of her small hands in his large ones, and as he drew closer, tightened his grip on her fingers until they ached. At the very last minute, when she felt the warmth of his breath on her lips and see the anger in his eyes, she turned her head to look straight at King Balor, and Nuada's mouth brushed a chaste kiss over her scarred cheek. Silvery blue eyes locked with the king's golden gaze, and Balor arched an eyebrow.

 _Oh, yeah,_ she thought.  _He knows I'm not okay with this. And he doesn't really care. Why is that? Nuada always said his father was noble and strong and fair-minded. A great king and a proud warrior. So why is he doing this to us? Well, we'll see how just long this lasts. He doesn't care that I don't like this, and I just hate having my feelings ignored._ Directed at Nuada, she added,  _You okay? You're not gonna throw up, are you, Your Highness?_

_I'll be fine. I will have to bathe with horse soap after this, and rinse my mouth with some of Caspar's strongest sour beer, but I'll be fine. Now act like one of those fluff-brained court females and blush._

_I can't blush on command. And why would I-_  Dylan began, then swallowed hard, reflexively, when Nuada brought her hand to his mouth and let his lips linger against her knuckles. The heat of his mouth sent tingles up her arm. She didn't have to force herself to blush. Fire spread through her face all on its own. Nuada's amused and almost affectionate smile wasn't forced, either, if she judged right.

"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat," he said, and her heart went into overdrive. He couldn't  _say_ stuff like that to her after  _doing_ stuff like that! Not in Gaelic, anyway. People said French was the language of love, but obviously they hadn't heard Gaelic spoken by a pointy-eared Irish prince before. The lyrical language with its liquid-silver vowels and resonating consonants made even the cheesiest pickup lines sound sexy (which, in her opinion, was lame. Also unfair). After all, if someone had said "my heart is within you" in English, she'd have told them to check the latest trashy romance novel for better inspiration. Or maybe looked at them askance and then sidled quickly away, pondering the nature of stalkers.

But when Nuada said it in the Old Tongue, it made her knees weak. Again. Which was simply ridiculous, because she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he didn't mean it. The words probably referred to the fact that his life (and thus the continued beating of his heart) rested within her power. That would make way more sense than if she took the sentiment at first blush. Yet still, her pulse raced.

 _You're killing me, here,_ she grumbled, feeling idiotic.  _Stop that._

His only response: a smug smile that held far too much male satisfaction. He might not consider her attractive (come to think of it, he probably thought she was ugly), but apparently every guy enjoyed giving a woman jelly-legs. Even an Elven prince.

 _I wonder how many of the court bimbos got jelly-legs from watching that._ Nuada only quirked a brow at her. Fighting the urge to grin like an idiot at the far-too innocent expression on the prince's face (or maybe scowl, she wasn't sure which), Dylan wondered,  _Think the Chamberlain's satisfied? Or is he such a total creep that we'll have to throw down on the floor and do the sweaty pretzel?_  She ignored the prince half-choking and glanced at the assembled courtiers and Lord Box-Head of the Creepy Fingers.

Some of the fae looked enchanted, some disgusted, some amused, and others with that condescending expression she'd seen on the faces of human adults looking at their love-snared teenage offspring; the "aww, isn't that cute" look. One, a beautiful dusky-skinned woman with wheat-blond hair tumbling around her shoulders and beautiful amber eyes, actually looked approving. She smiled. The human smiled back as a familiar feeling of peace unfurled in her chest. Here, at least, was an ally. She'd have to ask Nuada about her.

But Dylan saw that not one of the Daoine Maithe staring at her and Nuada looked disbelieving. At least, not that she could see. So they'd pulled it off. Hopefully the king thought they'd capitulated, and their ploy had bought some time to figure a way out of this "courtship" thing.

 _Don't be too swift to assume us safe,_ Nuada said in her mind.  _The Samhain feast is tonight, and we must attend, which means we'll be in the public eye for some time. And behold my father's face._

When she saw the ancient Elf king's expression - coolly amused, determined, and subtly challenging - she knew they weren't out of the political woods yet.  _Well_ , Dylan replied with a sigh.  _Crud._

**.**

Wink emptied the jack of weak ale in one swallow and motioned for one of the little bierasal barmaids to refill it for him. As the barely-four-foot-high tavern sprite took the leather jack toward the bar, the silver troll scratched his belly and inspected the nearly-regrown finger on his hand of flesh. As long as he kept up this drunken pretense of disinterest, the Kindly Folk around him continued to chatter on, oblivious to the fact that the crown prince's oldest companion listened intently to their gossip.

So far, none of those who frequented the tavern - aptly named the Drunken Dweorg - had mentioned anything about Nuada, Dylan, or the failed assassination attempt and coup at Findias three nights past, except for some to say they'd seen an Elf of Bethmoora striding through the streets, a silver cave troll at his side, the same night as when Wink knew the battle had occurred. But other than to speculate that the Elf may have been the Exiled Prince (it was no secret he kept a rather large silver troll as valet), nobody said anything about Nuada. Which, the troll knew, was nothing but good news. The knowledge that Nuada had been flogged wouldn't have bothered the prince if it got out - many of the common fae believed Balor's rule had failed and thought the prince could do no wrong - but anyone hearing about the human healer's involvement in the fiasco would cause nothing but problems.

The bierasal returned with the now-full jack. Wink took a sip and winced as he realized he'd grown spoiled drinking the Elf liquor that Nuada - on those incredibly rare nights when, after visiting with the human, he'd returned in a  _very_  good mood - sometimes brought out and shared with the troll. Wink knew this because the weak ale in his jack reminded him quite strongly of the stench of horse urine.

 _Ah, it doesn't matter,_ he thought, and downed the contents in one long swallow. Such weak alcohol lacked the necessary power to intoxicate him, even though this was his fourth serving.  _Drink is drink, though few establishments compare to Fafner's Cave,_  his and Nuada's favorite tavern.  _But I believe I'll take my leave of this place. There's nothing for me to learn. Besides, it stinks of Annwn swine here._  Not surprising, as Wink noticed a Dyfed-dweller sucking down blue Cornish ale from a tin cup.

As he stood to leave, tossing a few extra coppers on the table for the little bierasal who'd made sure to keep his jack full, the tavern door swung open. For a moment, the shadows turned what stood in the doorway into a strange, monstrous shape. Then a  _cù sìth_  padded in on silent paws. The beast looked fairly young, approximately the size of a year-old calf. Many of the otherworldly faerie dogs grew to be the size of fully-grown bulls come adulthood. This one must've been a puppy.

On the dog's back rode a short, lean figure in burgundy and black velvet. Once the figure that perched atop the  _cù sìth's_  broad back slid down, the green-furred hound shook itself and trotted over to the communal fireplace, where it plopped down, placed its head on its massive paws, and closed its luminous red eyes with a tired sigh. No one seemed to care that the beast's hide still sparkled with raindrops, or that it stank of wet dog. Wink only wrinkled his nose at the stench.

The faerie hound's diminutive owner climbed onto an empty table and yelled, "Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance has returned to Bethmoora! The Royal Exile has returned to Findias at last!"

Wink sank slowly back down to his bench and eyed the huge, green dog for a moment, ignoring the shouting clurichaun. Was the beast from the Royal Kennels? Because although the animal didn't look like the thoroughbred Sluagh hounds bred by the royal family, the troll was almost positive he recognized the clurichaun standing on the table, jabbering a mile a minute. Wasn't he one of the servants beneath Miyax, the kennel-mistress?

He motioned for the bierasal, and this time took one of the heavy mason jars full of honeyed mead from the tray she kept afloat above her head. Sipping carefully at the sweet alcohol, he listened to the freshly-arrived gossipmonger.

"Me own sister tol' me not an hour ago," the clurichaun was chattering to the entranced listeners. Several of the surrounding fae were offering to pay for the imbecile's drinks in exchange for more gossip.  _Ridiculous,_ Wink grumbled silently to himself as the drunk faerie added, "Works in the Royal Kennels, she does. The Silverlance is returned, she says, an' betrothed to a blinkin' human, to boot!"

The troll choked on his mead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sector Seven is one of those "doesn't exist" government agencies that appear in Transformers 1 & 2.  
> \- Warehouse 13 is another "doesn't exist" agency (henceforth known as a DE). They're out in Nevada in the ScyFy Channel show Warehouse Thirteen. The Warehouse itself holds all kinds of neat, famous "Artifacts." Some include things like HG Wells' time machine and Excalibur.   
> \- Torchwood is a British DE agency on the show Torchwood and Doctor Who.   
> \- Every first Sunday of the month in the LDS Church is called Fast Sunday. Church members choose to fast for 2 consecutive meals (breakfast and lunch) and attend a special Sacrament meeting known as Fast & Testimony meeting. Instead of having speakers like they normally do, members of the congregation are allowed to go up to the pulpit and bear their testimonies (literally testifying of the truth of a gospel principle or just testifying of the gospel in general). For the Singles' Wards (congregations made up of people between 18 and 30 who are unmarried), instead of sending people home to break their fast there, they hold this event called Break-the-Fast, where people who've previously signed up bring lots of yummy food.  
> Dylan isn't part of the Singles' Ward, even though she's only 29 and single, because she was called to serve as a Nursery teacher in a home ward (a ward for married people and people under 19 and over 30). Sometimes YSA (young single adults - people 18-30) are called to home ward positions, and they leave the singles' wards. But since she's going to Break-the-Fast with her brother (who is only 21), she's bringing food anyway. Or she planned to, anyway.  
> \- John-Boy Walton is the name of the main character from the 60s television show The Waltons. They called him John-Boy because his father's name was John.  
> \- "The good neighbors" or "kindly neighbors" is another term for the Fair Folk, which is why in her note, Dylan says "our neighbors."  
> \- Bob Dylan (whom Dylan is named after) has this song called "You've Gotta Serve Somebody." And in the song, he says, "You might call me Bobby, and you might call me Zimmie." And when I was a kid, I was like, "Wait... what? Why Zimmie?" Turns out, Bob Dylan's real name is Robert Zimmerman.  
> \- Iolo is the lead huntsman of Gwynn ap Nudd (king of the Tylwyth Teg and sometimes of Annwn, one of the Welsh-Celtic otherworlds) in Welsh mythology, and the Master of Cwn Annwn, "the hounds of Annwn." They're the Welsh wild hunt.  
> \- Findias is one of the four great cities of the Tuatha de, and the one where the Sword of Nuada was forged.   
> \- Cíocal was the leader of the Fomori when they first came to Ireland in Gaelic myth. He is not the King in the fic, though, because at the time the mythical Nuada was King of the Tuatha, Cíocal had already died.   
> \- In case it wasn't clear, when Dylan said, "His Highness has told me of Bethmoora, of both its majesty and of its king. I find that he did not exaggerate in his estimation of either," she was actually saying, "Nuada told me this place was gorgeous. He also told me you were a jerk. He was right on both counts."  
> \- LDS people have this thing called "the Word of Wisdom." It's about treating your body right. One of the things we're not supposed to do is drink alcohol.   
> \- The "do you trust me" wasn't inspired by Disney's Aladdin, I promise. It just sounds similar. Great movie, though. =)  
> \- Horse soap is another term for the stuff they washed horse blankets and tack and such with. It's really, really strong. It would actually probably make your hands crack and bleed if you actually used it on yourself.  
> \- Dweorg is the Old English word for "Dwarf," so the tavern is called the Drunken Dwarf.  
> \- Anwnn is the Welsh otherworld (similar to the English Avalon, the Tibetan Shambala, and the Irish Tir na nOg). Apparently they have magical pigs there. One of the Kings of Anwnn, Arawn, gave a gift of otherworldly pigs to Pryderi, the Lord of Dyfed (some Welsh kingdom or other), and the little swine (hehe) took up residence in Wales as well.  
> \- A Dyfed-dweller is not a type of faerie. It literally means someone from Dyfed.  
> \- Clurichaun: very similar to the leprechaun, only they are often drunk and are always surly.


End file.
